


The Chessmaster: Black Pawn

by Flye_Autumne



Series: The Chessmaster [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, POV Multiple, Political AU, Pureblood Culture, Pureblood Society, Sane Voldemort, Slytherin Harry Potter, Slytherin Hermione Granger, Slytherin Ron Weasley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2018-12-04 00:47:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 55,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11543934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flye_Autumne/pseuds/Flye_Autumne
Summary: Chessmaster Volume I. AU. Harry discovers that cleverness is the best way to outwit Dudley and his gang, which leads to a very different Sorting. While Harry and his friends try to unravel Hogwarts' various mysteries, the political tension in the Wizengamot reaches new heights as each faction conspires to control the fate of Wizarding Britain. Sequel complete.





	1. Opening Sequence

**Author's Note:**

> A/N 1:  
> Just your typical disclaimer for this entire work: I own nothing. All of Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. This is why I’m not rich.
> 
> A/N 2: This fic will be fairly AU. It will more-or-less follow canon plot for the first year, then it will diverge. The first three chapters should give you a pretty good idea of what’s going on. If anything is confusing, just let me know via comments! With that being said, let’s begin.

_ June 1989 _

_ The Muddy Hippogriff _

_ Sydewaize Alley, London _

 

Ron Weasley was hungry. He stole a quick look at the clock - it was only half-six - and sighed before plunging his hands back into soapy dishwater. As payment for his job as the washing up boy at the Muddy Hippogriff, Ron was guaranteed dinner, but that wouldn’t be served until half-eight at the earliest. Ron scrubbed another dish, ignoring the rumbling in his stomach. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast that morning. There just wasn’t enough food to go around now that Charlie, Percy, and the twins were home from Hogwarts.

_ And now that Dad is -  _

“Ronald!” Mrs. Bunbury’s sharp voice cut through his thoughts. “Ronald! Oh, there you are! Timothy just owled in ill, and I need someone to wait on tables - you know how to do that, right?” 

Ron looked at her in disbelief. “Er, no, ma’am, not really.” There was a reason Ron was the washing up boy -- he was too young to do anything else. For Merlin’s sake, he wasn’t even old enough to be  _ paid _ \-- not that he minded too terribly. He did get dinner for his efforts, and the portions were large enough that he had enough to bring home for lunch the next day. 

Meanwhile, Mrs. Bunbury had been sizing him up. “You’re a tall lad. Timothy’s uniform should fit you well enough. You won’t have to take any orders. Steven and Anna will take care of that; you’ll just need to carry the food out to the appropriate table. Come along now.” 

“I, er...” Ron stalled. He really didn’t know how to serve tables, and he could just imagine the customers sneering at poor little Ronald Weasley. He was fairly certain Mrs. Bunbury only hired him because she felt bad, but she never actually  _ said _ that or gave him any of those disgustingly pitying looks. That was the perk of working in the kitchen: none of the customers could come back to laugh at him.

Mrs. Bunbury rummaged around in her pocket. “Here,” she said, dropping several knuts and two sickles onto the counter. “Consider it a bonus. I’ve owled Brendan and Michael, and, Tiw willing, one will be able to work.”

Ron stared at the coins on the counter, ideas on how to spend it flashing through his mind. The latest installment in  _ Auror Bartleby and the Scepter of Thunor _ had just been released -- and he could actually  _ afford  _ it -- 

Mrs. Bunbury was looking at him expectantly. 

“Er yeah,” Ron said hastily. “I can help out.” 

Mrs. Bunbury beamed at him. “Excellent! Timothy’s uniform is over there on the hook. Find me or Anna once you’ve put in on.”

Ron nodded, crammed the coins in his pocket, and wandered off in search of the uniform. 

“Alright,” Anna was explaining. “The color of the tablet corresponds to what table you bring the food to. Each table has a light above it that will change to the color of the tablet. Once you’ve served a table, bring the tablet back to this box over here. If anyone gives you trouble, just holler for me or Steven. Make sense?” 

“Yeah. I just have to bring the tray to the table with the matching color. Then I bring the color tablet back to the box.” 

“Exactly! You can get started with this one here.” 

It turned out that bringing food out the tables was a busy but easy task. The customers barely acknowledged him outside of the occasional grunt to indicate who ordered what. They were far more interested in their firewhiskey (which Ron was Not Allowed To Touch) and whatever card game they were playing.  The Muddy Hippogriff always got progressively noisier as the night went on. Whatever was in the drinks certainly made people crazy, causing them sing ridiculous songs and spill drinks over the rough hewn floors. Luckily, it wasn’t his job to clean the floors. There was a house elf the Muddy Hippogriff shared with several of the other restaurants who took care of the less savoury cleaning tasks. Ron shuddered at the thought of scraping mysterious goop off the floor and glanced over at the wall clock. There were only a couple minutes left and a large piece of steak and kidney pie, a pile of mashed potatoes and several chocolate biscuits were sitting in the back room with his name on them. Ron’s stomach rumbled at the thought as he hurried back towards the kitchen. He only had a couple more orders left to carry out, and then it would be steak and kidney pie time. 

“Hang on second, Ron!” Anna hollered from the back of the kitchen. “There’s a coupla more things to be added to red table’s tray.” Anna soon appeared, floating several bowls of stew and a basket of crusty bread in front of her. “Red table’s in the back corner by the chessboard.”

“Chess?” Ron asked in surprise. He didn’t think the Muddy Hippogriff was the sort of place people would want to play chess in. It was far too noisy! How could anyone possibly concentrate on strategy? 

“It’s a grown up game,” Anna said, slightly exasperatedly.

Ron resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He’d been playing chess since he was six!

Anna was still talking. “Some of the regulars there are a bit odd, so don’t take it too badly if they say something strange to you. Oh, and Brendan just got here, so once you’ve finished up this lot you’re done for the night.” 

Ron grinned, and set about carrying trays.  _ Only three to go until steak and kidney pie time! _ He carefully balanced the trays for the orange and purple tables -- they didn’t have anything that would spill easily, so Ron could carry both at the same time -- and brought them out. The noise level inside the pub had reached a dull roar, and he had to neatly sidestep a couple mysterious puddles as well as a tipped over bar stool. Ron quickly headed back to the kitchen, grabbed red table’s tray and wove his way between the tables to the back corner of the pub where a strange group of wizards sat with a chess board between them. A bald man with the darkest skin Ron had ever seen and a scarred man with a whizzing magical eye were laughing uproariously. 

“C’mon, Dawlish,” the scarred man laughed raucously. “Can’t even beat Shacklebolt in chess! And he’s fresh out of the Academy!” 

The pain-faced dark haired man -- Dawlish -- blushed darkly. “I’m a fair enough chess player,” he said sulkily. 

“‘Couse you are.” The scarred man’s voice was laden with sarcasm. 

Dawlish opened his mouth to object when the bald man, Shacklebolt --  _ from the Shacklebolts of Ísìsí? --  _ interrupted. “Gentlemen, I believe our food has arrived.”

Dawlish continued to glare at the scarred man, and Ron stood uncomfortably.  _ Did he interrupt? _

“Look, Dawlish, just accept that most wizards can kick your arse in chess,” the scarred man said patronizingly.

“I -” Dawlish began.

“Gentlemen!” 

“Sorry, boy,” the scarred man told Ron. 

In Ron’s opinion, the man sound very  _ un _ -sorry, but he remembered Anna’s words and kept his mouth shut. He neatly placed the bowls on the table and kept his mouth shut once again when the scarred man started casting all sorts of spells on his. 

“Bet I could beat the server boy in chess,” Dawlish grumbled.

Ron froze midway through putting the bread basket on the table. 

The scarred man harrumphed. “Sure,” he drawled, “you can beat a kid.” 

Ron’s eyes darted between the two men and he set the bread basket on the table. Maybe if he left quickly, they wouldn’t notice. 

The scarred man continued talking. “Kid probably hasn’t even heard of chess, have you?” 

_ Bugger.  _ “Er, yeah,” Ron said, deliberately being vague. 

“Ever played?”

“Er, a bit,” Ron hedged. It wasn’t strictly true - Bill had taught Ron to play chess, and now Ron could easily beat him and Charlie and the twins. Percy always gave Ron a hard time when they played, but Ron could occasionally eek out a victory.  

“Think you’re good enough to beat Dawlish here?” 

Ron shifted his weight uncomfortably as he studied the board. Based on the pieces left standing, Shacklebolt was either a god among chess players, or Dawlish was worse than Fred and George. 

“Possibly,” Ron began, ready to protest that he was need back in the kitchen.

Dawlish scowled. “I doubt it. Look, boy, I’ll give you a galleon if you can beat me.”

Ron’s protests died on his lips. A galleon? A whole galleon, just for him? “Really?” he asked suspiciously. 

“Sure, sure,” Dawlish said. “It’s not like you’re going to beat me, anyways.” 

 Ron bit the inside of his cheek. It’s better if Dawlish thinks he’s little and stupid anyways. “Er okay,” Ron said, trying to sound uncertain. “My shift’s over. D’you mind if I grab my dinner first?” 

“Go ahead,” Dawlish drawled smugly. “Take your time.” 

Ron hurried back to the kitchen where he hastily changed out of Timothy’s uniform and scarfed down a decent portion of his dinner. Grabbing one of the biscuits to eat on the way, Ron headed back over to the chess table. Dawlish looked almost disappointed to see him back. 

“Alright,” said the scarred man. “I have a king in each hand. Which do you want, kid?” 

Ron pointed to the man’s left hand, and he opened it, revealing the black king. 

“Tough luck, kid. Dawlish, you’ll be playing white. Kid - what did you say your name was?”

“Ron.”

“Right then. Ron’ll be playing black.” 

Ron quickly set up his pieces. “Whenever you’re ready.” 

“Pawn to d4.” 

“Pawn to d5,” Ron countered. 

“Pawn to c4.”

Ron studied the board. Dawlish obviously was attempting the Queen’s Gambit. Ron was quite familiar with the opening -- Charlie wasn’t a terribly creative chess player and would consistently start the same way. Ron drummed his fingers on the table. Dawlish probably was banking on him accepting the gambit and falling obliviously into the trap it presented. If he accepted the gambit, but avoided the pitfalls, he could catch Dawlish by surprise. On the other hand, if he declined the gambit, Dawlish would have to reconsider his strategy and Ron would have a stronger defense. 

“Pawn to c6.”

Annoyance flashed briefly across Dawlish’ face. “Knight to f3.”

Ron continued to build his defense. “Knight to f6.”

“Knight to c3.”

Ron smiled to himself. Dawlish was playing exactly how he wanted him to. “Pawn to c4.” Ron watched happily as his pawn wrestled Dawlish’s pawn to the chessboard and beat it to a pulp. 

“Told you the kid was better.”

Dawlish scowled at the scarred man. “Beginner’s luck. Pawn to a4.”

Ron weighed the options. “Bishop to f5.” 

The game heated up from there, with Dawlish taking out one of Ron’s pawns a couple moves later. Dawlish then captured one of Ron’s bishops with his knight, but it ended up being in Ron’s favor because he then captured the knight with his pawn.  From there, Ron was able to solidify his control of the center, putting Dawlish on the backfoot. 

Once Dawlish started playing defensively, Ron was able to cramp him into a corner. 

“Checkmate in three moves.” 

Dawlish studied the board, then cursed. 

The scarred man smirked. “Told you, didn’t I?” 

“Shut yer gob, Moody.” 

“You owe the kid money.” 

Dawlish reluctantly flipped a galleon across the table. “All yours, kid.”

Ron pocketed the coin and stood to leave when a hand settled on his shoulder. 

“Well played, Ron,” Shacklebolt’s deep voice rumbled. 

Ron blushed slightly. “Thanks.” 

“If you could wait a moment.” Shacklebolt pulled a piece of parchment out from his robes’  pocket and handed it to Ron. Gilded letters spelled out ‘The 45th Annual Young Wizards’ Chess Tournament’. “You should consider this.”

Ron looked at Shacklebolt in confusion. “Sir, I don’t think I’m good enough -- ”

Shacklebolt sighed. “Ron, if I were to be completely honest with you, I would say even I would have difficulty beating you in chess.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“Yes.”

Ron studied the parchment closely. The tournament was sponsored by the Department of Magical Education, and the entry fee -- Ron gulped -- was ten sickles. But, the prize for winning the tournaments was five galleons. Ron quickly re-read it.  _ Five  _ galleons. Five  _ galleons _ . Ron did some quick mental math. If he could somehow manage to win the tournament multiple times before going to Hogwarts, he would be able to buy an  _ owl _ and all the snacks on the train that he wanted. Fred and George would be  _ so _ jealous. 

Ron turned to ask Shacklebolt another questions, but the man was gone. Ron shrugged. Shacklebolt, especially if he was one of the Ísìsí Shacklebolts, was clearly smart, or at least smart enough to see that Ron wasn’t a slouch at chess. 

Ron pocketed the parchment and headed back to the kitchen with a spring in his step. He would enter the tournament, and, with any luck, he’d win it too. 


	2. Unexpected Developments

# 

_ June, 1990 _

_ Tara, Ireland _

 

“C’mon!” Hermione called impatiently, stopping to wait for her parents to catch up. They were at  _ Tara _ , one of the oldest historical sights in Ireland, and her parents were  _ dawdling. _ Hermione tapped her foot. “Could you hurry up a bit? There’s so much to see, and I want to make sure we have enough time and -- ”

 “Calm down, Hermione. We’ll have sufficient time to see everything.” 

Hermione cast her father a doubtful look and continued tapping her foot. “I  _ guess _ so,” she grumbled. After what seemed like an ice age (but was only two and a half minutes if her wristwatch was accurate), her parents finally caught up. 

“Alright miss tour guide, where are we off to first?”  

“The Stone of Destiny!” 

“Which is?” 

“Da-ad! Weren’t you listening to me in the car?”

“Er...well…”

“Dad! I was telling you about everything!” Hermione complained. “The Stone of Destiny, also known as the Lia Faíl,  was brought to Tara by the old Irish gods, the Tuatha Dé Danann, as one of their sacred objects. Centuries of High Kings were crowned there, and it’s suppose to roar when touched by the rightful king of Tara.” Hermione paused for a breath, then continued. “Tara dates all the way back to the Stone Age and one hundred and forty-two kings reigned from there. The ancient Irish believed it was the sacred dwelling place of the gods as well as the gate to the underworld.”

“Well, that’s neat.” 

Hermione rolled her eyes at her father’s antics, and headed off across the grassy knoll. “The Stone of Destiny is this way!” 

Unseen by their daughter, Jack and Helen Granger exchanged a look. To say Hermione was precocious was almost an understatement. At ten years old, Hermione truly was a real-life Matilda. She devoured books well over her age level and soaked knowledge up like a sponge. Hermione also had a disturbing tendency to make things move without touching them. The adult Grangers tried to avoid thinking about that particular fact, but the evidence still stood. There was something about their daughter that was decidedly not normal. 

Hermione looked back at her (once again) dawdling parents. “Mum! Dad! Let’s  _ go _ !” 

“Coming, dear.” 

Once Hermione confirmed her parents were no longer dilly dallying, she happily led them around them green hill of Tara. The sun beat warmly down on her shoulders, and Hermione grinned from ear to ear. It was a great day to be outdoors, and an even better one to spend at an ancient historical sight. 

“Look, there’s the Stone of Destiny!” Hermione eagerly ran up to touch it (it was smaller than she imagined), and was only slightly disappointed when it didn’t roar. It would have been nice, she supposed, but magic didn’t really exist. After posing for the obligatory photos with her parents, Hermione set off to the next sight on her mental list: the Mound of Hostages. It was reported to contain the remains of over three hundred (yikes!) bodies,  _ and  _ it was astronomically aligned with the sunrise on Samhain and Imbolc, which were ancient Celtic festivals. Just thinking about all the math the ancient Irish undertook to create the Mound made Hermione’s head hurt. 

The Granger family wandered around Tara, stopping to admire the crumbling tree-bound walls of Rath Lugh and the remnants of the Holy Well. The bumpy remains of the ancient earthworks fascinated Hermione, although her parents were less than interested. 

“And our last stop of the day, the Standing Stones!” Jack commented, sounding relieved. “I never did understand why you’re so interested in all these old rocks.” 

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but her mother beat her to it. 

“Jack! Don’t tease Hermione.” 

“Anyways - onward?” Jack said, looking slightly sheepish. 

Hermione stuck her nose imperiously in the air. “Naturally.” 

They walked over to the Tara churchyard where the two mossy standing stones stood. The smaller one was up to Hermione’s waist while the larger one was taller than her. 

“Did you know,” she began as she walked around the stones, “that the ancient legends say that king candidates had to drive their chariots through these two stones and if the candidate was worthy, the stones would open a passageway?” 

“I didn’t know that. I do know another local legend about the stones though,” Helen said.

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Really? What is it?” 

“The locals your father and I met in the pub last night said that if you sit on the little stone and make a wish, the wish will come true.” 

Hermione harrumphed. “Sure, Mum. You’re just trying to get another picture of me to send to Grandad and Nan.” 

Helen wiggled her eyebrows. “You won’t know if it’s true until you try it.” 

Hermione sighed. “Okay, Mum. I’m only going to do this once though, so make sure you’re ready with the camera.” Hermione clambered onto the stone.  _ Alright. Here goes nothing _ , Hermione thought, wishing she could see Tara in its true from, how it once was. Hermione closed her eyes, concentrating hard on Tara as it was in historical drawings and how marvelous it would look in person.  

Hermione cautiously opened her eyes, hoping for the barest of seconds that her wish would come true. 

Everything was the same. 

Feeling slightly disappointed, Hermione scooted off the stone. 

“What did you wish for?” Helen asked.

“I can’t say, otherwise it won’t come true. Not that it -- ” Hermione’s jaw dropped. Right behind the standing stones was an elegantly carved stone arch. Dragons twisted their way around each base and strange etchings that Hermione vaguely recognized as runes scrolled across the top. Hermione blinked. The arch was still there. She shook her head to clear it.  The arch was still there. 

“Er, Mum, do you see that,” Hermione said, pointing to the arch that  _ definitely wasn’t there a minute ago _ . 

Helen frowned. “See what?” 

“The arch...right there.”

Helen squinted. “I don’t see any sort of arch, dear. You aren’t playing tricks on me, are you?” 

“No, I’m not. It’s an honest-to-goodness arch, right there.”

Helen looked at her doubtfully. “All I can see are trees.” 

Hermione took a deep breath. Seeing things that no one else could see was perfectly (not) normal. “I’m just going to explore a bit this way, alright?” Hermione said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the arch.

“Don’t wander too far.”

“I won’t.” Hermione walked over to the arch with a degree of trepidation. The stone was polished, and smooth to touch. The runes marched uniformly across the top of the arch with a precision Hermione hadn’t believed was possible. Small renditions of other mythical animals adorned the arch. Hermione was sure there was a sphinx, then something else that looked half eagle, half horse. There were other carvings, ones Hermione hoped were something else. The wild, powerful horse leaping out of the stone could only be a pooka, and the headless rider astride the other stone stallion had to be the Dullahan.

Hermione shivered involuntarily. Perhaps there were more carvings on the other side. Ones that were less grotesque. A strange whispering feeling settled over her as she walked through the arch, followed quickly back a jerking sensation behind her navel. The world dissolved into a whirlwind of color, then -- 

Thud. Hermione blinked. She was lying on the grass, staring up at bluebird colored sky.

No. That wasn’t right. The day, which had started out sunny, had quickly turned cloudy towards the evening. Hermione pushed herself to her feet, and a monolithic carving stared her in the face. 

“Ack!” Hermione shrieked, nearly falling over again. The face of the carving was incredibly lifelike, if not for the strange antlers sprouting out of the statue’s head. Hermione turned, and was met with the sight of carved crow, then a carved man with a staff and a long cloak.  “The Celtic gods,” she murmured. “Cernunnos, the Dagda, and the Morrigan.” 

“Indeed.”

Hermione stifled a scream and whirled around. An old, no, an  _ ancient _ looking woman stood before her. The crone’s face was lined with wrinkles, and a pair of deep green eyes sparkled from their depths. Long white hair tumbled freely down the woman’s back, contrasting sharply with her black cloak. 

“You know the old gods,” the crone said.

“I - what? I’m sorry, I don’t know how I even got here,” Hermione said quickly. “I’m terribly sorry for bothering you, but -- ”

The crone held up a hand, and Hermione’s voice stopped working. “You are here for a reason, young one. The gate would not have worked for you otherwise.” 

Hermione opened and closed her mouth, but sound still wouldn’t come out.  

“Follow me. If you do not resist, I will give you back your voice.” 

A weight settled into the pit of Hermione’s stomach. What on earth had she stumbled into? 

“Take my hand,” the crone said suddenly, offering her gnarled fingers to Hermione. “Elsewise you will not be able to cross the wards.” 

Hermione nervously linked her fingers and silently gasped. Standing before her was was a massive structure, one that made Stonehenge look small in comparison. And, Hermione realized with shock, it looked to be made of  _ wood _ . 

“So you see it now,” the crone commented. “Ciorcal na cinn Ársa. It is where we humble witches pay homage to the old gods.” 

Hermione managed to find her voice. “It’s Stonehenge...only larger.”

The crone glared. “The place you speak of is Ciorcal cloch Mór. Do not degrade our history by way of filthy muggle names.” 

“O-our history?” Hermione stammered. “I think there’s been some mistake. I don’t know anything -- ” 

“Silence. You are of the old blood, are you not?”

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“You would not be here unless the old blood ran through your veins.” 

They were inside Ciorcal na cinn Ársa now, and the timbers cast strange shadows across their faces. 

“Bronagh.” 

A cloak swirled in the shadows, and a woman came into view, the cowl of her cloak hiding her face. 

“Rionach. I see you have found the child.” 

“Indeed.” 

Bronagh came closer. “And you are certain she will fulfill her role?”

“I am.” 

“She does not look like one of us.” 

“The gate permitted her entrance.”

“You are aware of the repercussions if we err.” 

Rionach drew herself up, and when she spoke, her voice was cold. “I most certainly do. I have walked these paths far longer than you, Bronagh, and you would do well to remember that.”

“I will confirm with Deirdre,” Bronagh said flatly. “Come.” 

 They headed deeper into Ciorcal na cinn Ársa. A feeling of dread began to build in the pit of Hermione’s stomach. Something was terribly wrong. What had looked like a small mound in the distance was quickly resolving into a huge pyre. A white-robed woman paced around it. 

“Deirdre!” 

The woman turned, revealing a crone even more withered than Rionach. “This is the one,” she rasped. 

“Rionach believes so.” 

“Mm. Come here, child.” 

Hermione felt sick to her stomach. She couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t do it. 

“Do not make me compel you.” 

Hermione stumbled forward, and Deirdre brandished a small silver dagger. 

“Prick your finger.” 

The weight in Hermione’s stomach intensified. 

“Do it.” 

Hermione pressed the edge of the dagger into the tip of her index finger and winced as crimson blood began to flow. 

Deirdre held the dagger up to the fading light. “Interesting. The stars do not lie.” She inhaled deeply, then licked the dagger clean. Hermione’s stomach heaved. Deirdre’s eyes closed for a heartbeat, then opened. “Old blood flows through her veins. She is the one.”

“Are you certain?” Bronagh demanded. “The repercussions -- ”

“The heavens do not lie, child. Let us begin.” 

The women began to chant. “ _ Cinn Ársa, éist lenár caoin. Táimid pléadáil chugat ónár confines domhain a chloisteáil ar ár caoin agus glacadh lenár nguí. De réir an cumhacht ag an Inghean, an Mátrún agus an Cailleach, tugaimid chugat. _ ”

The women spread their arms, and the pyre ignited, bright orange flames twisting to fantastical shapes. 

“ _ Iarraimid duit, Morrigan. Éist lenár guthanna. _ ”

Deirdre pushed Hermione forward. “Cast your blood upon the flames,” she hissed. The blood crackled, and a flame dragon soared skyward. 

“ _ Tugann an inghean a fola neamhchiontach _ .”

Bronagh brandished the dagger and shed her blood into the flames.

“ _ Tugann an mátrún a fola leanbh. _ ”

The dagger was passed to Rionach who grimaced as she sliced her finger over the fire.

“ _ Tugann an cailleach ann da a fola saoil. _ ”

The women’s voice grew deeper. “ _ De réir an chumhacht bestowed dúinn ag an Dagda, táimid ag iarraidh ar tú. _ ”

The flames reached skyward. A brilliant white light flashed, and Hermione knew no more.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: All of the Irish in this chapter has been plugged through Google Translate. If anyone actually speaks Irish and wants to correct it, comment below!
> 
> To address the question a couple of (fabulous) reviewers had: this story has multiple perspectives, and narration will hop from character to character. Harry, Hermione, and Ron are the main narrators, although there will be a couple other guest narrators. Also, make sure you’re paying attention to the timestamps on each chapter. There’s a one year time jump between chapters one and two!


	3. Forward Motion

# 

 

_ July, 1991 _

_ 4 Privet Drive _

_ Little Whinging, Surrey _

* * *

If you asked the local librarians about Harry James Potter, they would tell you he was a perfectly nice lad -- well-mannered, quiet, and with a healthy appetite for fantasy and adventure novels. Harry wasn’t a disturbance in the library like his cousin Dudley, who had been banned due to his destructive behavior. Harry also wasn’t like his aunt Petunia who read trashy romance novels and constantly shrieked at her nephew to hurry up.

No, Harry was decidedly  _ not _ like his family, which the librarians would agree upon even more enthusiastically if they had met Vernon, Harry’s uncle who resembled a walrus, albeit one with a large moustache and a cheap suit.  

Harry was a decidedly different child, and it was not because he had read  _ The Hobbit  _ seventeen times as well as the library’s copious collection of spy novels. Harry was a wizard -- and not a muggle wizard like Gandalf, but a real-life wand-wielding, spell-casting wizard.  Only, Harry didn’t know this yet. 

“Up!” shrieked a shrill voice. “Get up!” 

Harry jerked awake. “Coming, Aunt Petunia,” he mumbled sleepily. Harry yawned and stretched, being careful not to bash his head on the underside of the stairs. Harry dug around for his socks, pausing briefly to brush a spider off one of them, quickly finished getting dressed, then climbed out of his cupboard. 

Petunia already had the bacon in the frying pan by the time Harry arrived in the kitchen, and she was tapping her foot impatiently. Petunia sniffed imperiously, warned Harry not to burn the bacon or the toast, then stalked off the sitting room. Harry expertly finished cooking the breakfast, making sure to give the largest portion to Dudley because, according to Aunt Petunia, “Dinky Duddydums is a growing boy who need lots of nutrients to become big and strong!”.  In Harry’s opinion, Dudley’s only growth was horizontal, and he was already quite large. Large enough, in fact, that he could probably crawl into the pig exhibit at the local zoo and nobody would notice the difference. 

Harry carried the plates over to the table where Aunt Petunia, Dudley, and Uncle Vernon were waiting. Veron was busy ignoring Harry and muttering about the idiot politicians and all their mimblewimble while Dudley was whining he hadn’t gotten enough bacon. Harry rolled his eyes and took a bite of toast. Dudley was  _ always _ complaining about something. 

He was just tucking into his eggs when the mailslot clicked and letters flopped onto the doormat. 

“Get the mail, Dudley,” said Uncle Vernon from behind his paper. 

“Make Harry get it.”

“Get the mail, Harry.”

“Make Dudley get it.” 

“Poke him with your Smelting stick, Dudley.”

Harry dodged the Smelting stick and ignored the face Dudley pulled at him as he headed out into the hallway. There was a small pile of letters on the mat, and Harry thumbed through them. There was a postcard from Uncle Vernon’s sister, Marge, a boring brown envelope that looked like a bill, and -  _ a letter for Harry _ . 

He looked at it in confusion. Nobody ever sent him letters. He had no friends, and no relatives other than the Dursleys. He always returned his books on time to the library, so he didn’t even get dull overdue notices. Yet, here was a letter, clearly addressed to him: 

 

_ Mr. H. Potter _

_ The Cupboard Under the Stairs _

_ 4 Privet Drive _

_ Little Whinging _

_ Surrey _

 

Well. That was odd. Somehow, someone knew about Harry’s cupboard. Harry had always found it ironic that the Dursleys, who claimed to be perfectly normal, kept him in a cupboard. To Harry’s knowledge, perfectly normal families did not keep their nephews in boot cupboards -- especially when there was a serviceable spare bedroom. He had been quite upset about it when he was younger, but after reading numerous spy novels, he considered it a unique advantage. The Dursleys had no pictures of Harry in the house, so if a crazy axe murderer ever broke in, they wouldn’t even think to look for Harry, and they especially wouldn’t think to look in his cupboard. He had pointed out this much to Dudley, but Dudley hadn’t been interested. Then again, Dudley wasn’t interested in anything beyond eating and smacking Harry with his Smeltings stick. 

Despite never getting post, Harry knew that where you slept wasn’t part of your address. The address in and of itself was unusual, but even more unusual was the thick heavy envelope and the lack of a stamp.  _ Strange and stranger.  _ Harry flipped over the envelope and saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter  _ H _ . Feeling very puzzled, Harry stuck the letter in his pocket to peruse later. He had the oddest feeling it was something Uncle Vernon would not like. 

Harry went back to the kitchen.

“Well boy, anything interesting?” 

“No,” Harry lied. “Just a postcard from Aunt Marge and a bill of some sort.” 

Uncle Vernon grunted in acknowledgement and went back to reading his paper, and Harry heaved an internal sigh of relief. His letter was safe. For now, at least.

_ Click! _ Harry held his breath, hoping the Dursleys hadn’t heard the sound of the torch turning on. Hearing nothing but the rumbling snores of Uncle Vernon and Dudley, Harry released the breath as he carefully balanced the torch between his knees. With trembling fingers, he opened the wax seal, revealing a sheet of the same heavy paper, which read:

 

HOGWARTS SCHOOL 

_ of _ WITCHCRAFT  _ and _ WIZARDRY 

~

Headmaster: Lord ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

( _ Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards, Defeater of Grindelwald)  _

~

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31. 

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

_ Deputy Headmistress _

_ Professor of Transfiguration _

 

Sure enough, there was another sheet of paper in the envelope detailing the supply list, which contained the strangest things. Apparently wizards still wore pointy hats and flew on broomsticks. 

Harry frowned. If the letter was a scam, it was a rather thorough one. However… Harry read the letter again, thinking hard. If the letter was a scam, it wouldn’t ask for his owl, of all things. It would probably ask for him to send money off to somewhere for a chance to be entered in a magic school. This, however... this seemed different.  

Perhaps against his better judgement, Harry rummaged around in his cupboard until he found a piece of paper and a biro. 

 

_ Dear Professor McGonagall,  _

_ My name is Harry Potter and I recently received a letter from the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  _

 

Harry chewed on the pen thoughtfully.

 

_ Until today, I did not know I was a wizard. I have several questions, and I was wondering if I could meet with a school representative.  _

_ Yours sincerely, _

_ Harry Potter _

 

There! Now all he had to do was wait until the Dursleys were out the next day, find an envelope and stamp, and mail the thing. Hopefully addressing the envelope to  _ Professor Minerva McGonagall, Hogwarts School _ would do the trick. And then, with any luck, a school representative would meet with him, and he, Harry, would be on his way to be a wizard. Just like Gandalf! 

With thoughts of magic and dragons swirling around in his mind, Harry clicked off the torch and fell asleep with a smile on his face.

* * *

 

“So magic is real then?” 

The professor shot a distasteful glare at Harry’s t-shirt. He really didn’t seem to like Harry. Either that or he had really strong aversion to Star Wars t-shirts. Maybe he was a Star Trek fan. 

“Yes, Mr. Potter,” the man drawled. “Magic is very real.” 

“Could you show me?” 

Muttering something about wand waving, the professor brandished a long stick -- a magic wand! -- and waved it in a complex pattern, turning a nearby boulder into a small dog. 

“Wicked!” 

“If you’re done staring, Mr. Potter, we can go purchase your school supplies. The headmistress was quite adamant that I ensured you obtained everything you needed. I assume you have your supply list?” 

Harry rummaged around in his pocket. “Yeah, I have it here. Er, professor?” 

“What is it, Mr. Potter?” 

“How am I to buy school supplies? I haven’t any money.” 

A brief look of confusion passed over the man’s face, then he scowled, muttering something about barmy old coots. Or it could have been wormy mold scoots. Harry couldn’t be certain. “Your parents left you with more than enough money to fund your entire school career.” 

Harry’s mind went blank. “My parents what?” 

The professor glared at Harry as if he were being purposefully thick. “Your parents were quite wealthy, Mr. Potter, as I am sure you know. They left you more than enough money to get you through your school career.” He eyed Harry suspiciously. “Unless you have already spent it all, that is.”

Harry’s head spun. “What? No!” Of course he hadn’t spent any money. He didn’t even know he  _ had _ any in the first place. Something wasn’t adding up. “I thought -- I thought my parents died in a car crash. And Aunt Petunia said my dad was always on the dole. And that he was a useless drunkard.” 

The professor’s mouth dropped open, “A car crash? She said they died in a car crash!?” There was a pause as the professor calmed down slightly. “Your parents did not die in a car crash, Mr. Potter. I highly doubt that your father even knew how to drive -   wizards’ motor vehicles are typically enchanted to be self-driving. Your father -- ” The professor paused, “Lord Potter was quite...an entitled individual, although he certainly was not a drunkard.” 

“ _ Lord _ Potter?” 

The professor sighed. “It is not my place to teach you about wizarding politics. If you are truly interested, there are books.” 

“Okay.”  Harry tried to wrap his head around everything. His father had been a lord, whatever that meant for wizards. And he hadn’t been a drunk, which was good, Harry supposed. And his parents hadn’t died in a car crash. “Professor Snape? How did my parents die?” 

“That is not my story to tell.”

“Please?”

“There was a war, and they trusted the wrong person. Come along, Mr. Potter. If you wish to obtain your school supplies, we need to get moving.”  

A few minutes later, Harry had experienced the unique  _ dis _ -pleasure of Apparition and gotten a short lecture from Professor Snape. He had shopping of his own to conduct in the Alley, and Harry was expected to do his own shopping without any ‘dunderheaded dilly dallying’ and meet the professor back in the Leaky Cauldron no later than three pm.  He had also put some sort of charm on Harry’s scar. Apparently Harry was quite famous in the Wizarding World -- the professor wouldn’t explain why -- and the charm would make him less noticeable. 

Harry scanned the area. Diagon Alley was simply teeming with life. Witches and wizards wore brightly colored robes and carried equally colorful bags. Each shop seemed to sell something more fantastical than the next. The Apothecary was selling dragon liver -- seventeen Sickles an ounce -- and Quality Quidditch Supplies had some sort of  _ racing broom _ . Harry was nearly giddy with excitement. It was so completely and utterly and amazingly  _ cool _ , and Harry wanted to buy everything. First, though, he needed to find the bank, which was...conveniently right in front of him. 

Harry climbed up the white stone steps, then hesitated. There was a... _ thing _ guarding the doors. It was about a head shorter than Harry with a swarthy, clever face and a pointed beard. Taking a deep breath, Harry walked passed it and through the bronze doors of the bank. There was another thing, and another set of doors. These were silver, though, and engraved. 

“ _...you have been warned, beware, of finding more than treasure there, _ ” Harry murmured. “Well, that’s friendly.” 

The thing smiled at him, revealing very pointy teeth. “The Goblin Nation protects its own.” 

Harry swallowed hard, nodded and moved into the bank lobby, trying to ignore the fact that  _ goblins _ , goblins, of all things, were also real. Feeling slightly nervous, Harry walked up to the nearest free teller. 

“Er, good morning.  I’d like to take money out of my safe.” 

The goblin peered at him. “Your name, sir?”

“Harry Potter.”

“And do you have your key?”

Harry shifted uncomfortably. “Er, no, actually. I only found out I was a wizard yesterday, you see, and --” 

The goblin waved his concerns away. “It is no problem. Prick your finger here to confirm that you are indeed Harry Potter, and we can have a new key made.” 

Harry looked skeptically at the strange silver instrument. “I need to...prick my finger? Why?”

“Appearance, Mr. Potter, can easily be faked. Blood, however, is an entirely different matter.” 

Harry pricked his finger, and the goblin studied some sort of printout. “Everything appears to be in order. Here is your new key. Take care not to lose it. Griphook!”

Griphook was yet another goblin who led Harry through one of the many side doors and into a small cart. With a click of Griphook’s fingers, the cart whirled away down the track, twisting left, right, passing bursts of flame and underground lakes. Finally, they stopped in front of a small door in the passage wall. Harry clambered out of the cart on only slightly wobbly legs as Griphook unlocked the door. Inside the vault were mounds of gold, columns of silver, and heaps of bronze. 

“This is all mine?” Harry asked in awe.

“Yes, sir, it most certainly is. When you reach your majority, you will receive access to the main Potter vault as well.”

Harry couldn’t believe it. “There’s...more?” 

Griphook looked at him incredulously. “House Potter is one of the oldest houses on the Wizengamot. Of course there is more.” 

Harry took a moment to process that. “Er, okay, then. Uh, how much of this do you think I’ll need?” 

“Thirty Galleons should be more than sufficient. The Galleons are the gold ones. There are seventeen silver Sickles to a Galleon and twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle,” Griphook explained. “For three Galleons you can purchase a change bag with an undetectable expansion charm that is linked to your vault and keyed into your magical signature. It will refill on the first of each month with a pre-set amount of coins. If you require more funds yet find yourself unable to go to the bank, you can owl Gringotts, and for a small fee of only seven Sickles, your bag will refill early. ” 

Harry blinked. “Okay. Er, I’ll get one of those bags, then.” Harry set about filling his bag with coins, then endured another whizzing cart ride back up to the surface. 

One short hour later found Harry standing outside Madam Malkin’s robe shop. He’d already purchased all his supplies -- including an owl --  and books. He even purchased  _ extra  _ books. Upon talking to the shop keeper, Harry had gotten  _ Scrifteller’s Guide to the Wizengamot _ ,  _ Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century, _ and, just for fun, a graphic novel titled  _ Auror Bartleby and the Diadem of Hretha _ . The  _ Auror Bartleby _ series apparently was very popular with wizards his age, so Harry had figured he should give it a try. 

Harry pushed open the door to Madam Malkin’s and was greeted by a short, squat smiling witch. 

“Hogwarts, dear?”

Harry nodded.

“Got the lot here, there’s another young man being fitted up just now in fact. Just head straight on to the back, Giselle will help you out.” 

 Harry headed to the back of the shop with a degree of trepidation. He didn’t talk to people his own age much, mostly courtesy of Dudley threatening to beat up anyone who tried to hang out with him. 

“‘Ogwarts?” asked a young witch. “Jus’ ‘op on this stool ‘ere an’ I’ll get you all pinned up.” 

Harry climbed on a stool next to a boy with dark brown skin and eyes the color of butterscotch. The witch slipped a robe over Harry’s head and began to pin it.

“Hello,” said the boy cheerfully. “Hogwarts too?” 

“Yeah,” Harry said.

“Excellent,” said the boy. “Any idea as to what house you’ll be in?”

Houses? Harry wondered. “Er, no, not really,” he replied vaguely. 

“Well,” the boy said, a crafty smile on his face, “nobody  _ really _ knows until we get there. I have a feeling I’ll be in Slytherin though. Us clever and ambitious types have got to stick together, you know. I’m Blaise, by the way. Blaise Zabini.” 

“I’m Harry Potter.”

Blaise did a double take. “ _ Really? _ ” 

“Yeah.”

“Blimey...I suppose you’ll be a Gryffindor, then.” Blaise sounded a bit put out. He clearly wasn’t a huge fan of whatever this Gryffindor thing was. 

Harry shrugged. “I dunno. To be perfectly honest, I didn’t even know I was a wizard until yesterday.”

Blaise goggled at him. “You  _ what _ ?” 

“I was raised by my relatives. They aren’t wizards or anything. I mean, I don’t think they even know magic exists. So, er, yeah. I have no idea what the houses at whatnot are.” 

Blaise looked even more confused than before. “But...you’re the Boy-Who-Lived...nevermind. Well, so, the houses. At Hogwarts, you’re sorted into one of four houses upon arrival. There’s Gryffindor, for the brave,” Blaise rolled his eyes at this, “Ravenclaw for the academically inclined, Hufflepuff for the loyal, and Slytherin for the cunning and ambitious.” 

“They all sound kind of nice, I guess.” 

“I suppose so. They all -- ”

“All set, Mr. Potter.” 

Harry hopped down from the stool. 

“I’ll see you on the train then, Harry,” Blaise said. 

Harry waved goodbye, paid for his robes, then headed out to buy the last thing: his magic wand. 

Ollivander’s was an old and shabby looking shop, and Harry had the oddest feeling that he was being watched. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Potter,” said a soft voice. 

Harry jumped. An old man with odd shimmering eyes stood before him. 

“Er, hello,” Harry said uncomfortably. 

“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Potter. It seems like it was only yesterday that your parents were here buying their wands. Your mother’s wand was ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. I say your father favored it, but, it’s really the wand that chooses the wizard. And you,” a tape measure popped into existence in Mr. Ollivander’s hand, “Let’s see what we can do for you.” 

The tape measure began whizzing around taking measurements. Harry tried to follow it, but ended up going cross-eyed when he tried to watch it measure the distance between his eyes. 

“Excellent,” said Mr. Ollivander, who’d reappeared holding several boxes. “Try this.” 

Feeling a bit foolish, Harry waved the wand. 

“No, no not that one. How about...this one?”

Mr. Ollivander must had handed Harry over a dozen wands, but none of them were quite right. Oddly enough, the man seemed to be getting happier and happier with the more wands Harry rejected. 

“Hmm, tricky customer. I wonder...try this, Mr. Potter. An unusual combination. Holly and phoenix feather. Eleven inches, nice and supple.” 

Harry took the wand and felt a sudden warmth in his fingers. He gave it a wave and a brilliant stream of gold sparks shot out of the end. A grin broke out over his face.

He, Harry Potter, was going to be a wizard.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I hope everyone is enjoying the fic! This chapter definitely has the most stuff borrowed from canon. My usual round of thanks goes out to my fabulous betas -- they’ve been awesome thus far!
> 
> Also, I know some authors do this, and I found it was something I really liked:
> 
> In the movie version of this story that’s playing in my head, the role of Severus Snape will be played by Adam Driver (albeit without the ability to style himself or his hair).
> 
> I’m curious. . .who has been your favorite narrator thus far?


	4. Artistic License

 

_ Offices of the Daily Prophet _

_ Diagon Alley, London _

_ August, 1991 _

 

_ Disturbingly little is known about Thomas Gaunt. _ Rita’s fingers rested on the typewriter keys. When her boss told her to investigate Thomas Gaunt and the Wizengamot, she’d jumped at the opportunity. She could see it --  _ The Enigma of Thomas Gaunt  _ \-- and then the by-line, modest, of course, but still her name in all capital letters above the words declaring the exposé to be a bestseller. Her photo, winking flirtatiously from the back cover as she twitched her blonde curls over her shoulder. The Galleons, pouring in to her Gringotts account. Rita sighed, thinking of all the gorgeous new robes she could purchase. 

Yes, the book would most certainly be a bestseller. . . if only she could find information.

Rita took another drag off her cigarette. Of course her boss would be enough of an arse to assign her an impossible project along with the normal slog of articles. Rita snorted delicately. Normal slog of articles. That’s what interns for, after all. Speaking of which -- 

“Penelope Clearwater!” Rita hollered. “Where is my gods-be-damned coffee!?” Rita tsked. Such inefficiency. Did it really take five minutes to fetch coffee from the shop down the road? No. Of course not. Rita could manage the entire coffee operation in two minutes flat. Granted, she could apparate and the hapless intern could not, but that was no excuse. Rita eyed the growing stack of to-be-edited articles. It looked like the usual drivel: the Quidditch section, the leisure section, and celebrity sightings. Merlin forbid she have anything interesting to read! 

 

_ BALLYCASTLE BATS SMASH CHUDLEY CANNONS!  _

_ by Martyn Quicksilver _

 

Rita heaved an internal groan. Not. Another. Chudley. Cannons. Article. She skimmed through it quickly, bloodred correcting quill in hand as she corrected comma splices and capitalization mistakes. Honestly, was anyone literate anymore? Rita read to the bottom of the article and smiled viciously. Steven Stebbins still played for the Cannons? How lovely. He’d dumped her back in Hogwarts for some Hufflepuff tart. Crossing out his name, Rita wrote in ‘Stubby Stubbins.’ 

“It’d be terribly misfortunate if the poor man’s name was spelled wrong,” Rita mused, flicking the parchment into the production pile. One down, a stupidly large amount to go. 

 

_ RONALD WEASLEY TROUNCES DRACO MALFOY FOR THIRD CONSECUTIVE CHESS TOURNAMENT WIN!  _

_ by Verity Goodwinter _

 

Oh dear. Rita clucked her tongue in disapproval. This would never do. A Weasley trouncing a Malfoy? Completely and utterly inappropriate. Lucius would have a conniption. Legally, there was not much Rita could do. The Weasleys, despite their disgusting lack of wealth, were a Noble and Moste Ancient House while the Malfoys only afforded Noble and Ancient status. Unless Rita wanted to accrue several hefty fines against her person, she had to play nice and not misspell anyone’s name or overtly slander them. The law was quite unfortunate, really, and truly suppressed her creative energy. Snorting at her own joke, Rita went back to the hideous title. Ah ha!  

 

_ DRACO MALFOY NARROWLY FALLS IN CHESS TOURNAMENT FINALS _

_ by Verity Goodwinter _

 

There. That was a  _ much _ more acceptable title. Rita merrily edited the article, perfectly succeeding in making Draco Malfoy sound like a suave young chess player and Ronald Weasley like a bumbling buffoon who somehow managed to win the tournament three times in a row. It happened by chance, obviously. How else would a Weasley beat a Malfoy? Skill? Now that was completely and utterly preposterous -- and the rest of magical Britain would agree with her.

 Rita sorted through the rest of the daily drivel. There was an article on cauldron bottom thickness -- how boring, who in their right mind would want to read that? An opinion piece on the need to update Hogwarts’ Muggle Studies curriculum. Rita incendio’d it on the spot. The Daily Prophet didn’t need any of  _ that _ particular nonsense. Sighing at the abject incompetence, quickly flipped through the rest of the pile. Boring. Boring. And - 

 

_ BOY-WHO-LIVED SIGHTED IN DIAGON ALLEY! _

_ by Cassidy Higgins _

 

Rita’s eyebrows rose a fraction. Well. This was a new development. She drummed her fingers, crimson nails clicking against the desk. This could be big. Really big. The certain type of big that Cassidy Higgins definitely didn’t deserve. The certain type of big that Rita had been waiting for: a front page article. Rita smiled. She could see it already in her mind’s eye. It would be amazing. It would be perfect. 

 

_ BOY-WHO-LIVED SIGHTED IN DIAGON ALLEY!  _

_ by Rita Skeeter _

 

_ Harry Potter, the Saviour of the Wizarding World, was recently spotted in Diagon Alley, writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent. Yes, dear readers, young Mr. Potter has made his first public appearance since the downfall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Mr. Potter visited various shops in the Alley, clearly shopping for his first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. While this is unsurprising, there are well-founded rumour of something that was: Harry Potter was accompanied to Diagon Alley by no other than Severus Snape! Dear readers, let me remind you that this is the very same Severus Snape who was charged with conspiracy during the Dark Uprising of the 1970s. Someone trusted this dubious man to watch over the Boy-Who-Lived, and evidence points towards Albus Dumbledore as the culprit. Why did Dumbledore trust Snape to watch over our Saviour? Does this speak of a deeper, more insidious plot to corrupt the Boy-Who-Lived? We can hope that Dumbledore is simply a benevolent dingbat, but his actions indicate a more serious problem... _

“Lovely,” Rita murmured. 

Next to her, Penelope Clearwater jumped. “Er, Ms. Skeeter, I have your coffee,” she said hesitantly, setting the beverage down. 

Rita glared at the blonde girl. “About damn time, Clearwater. Take these -- ” Rita waved 

a hand in the direction of the edited articles “-- to production, and be quick about it. These are actually important, you know.” 

“Of course, Ms. Skeeter.” Clearwater scooped up the parchments and disappeared around the corner in a swirl of navy robes. 

Rita pursed her lips. Clearwater was more unflappable than her previous intern had been, but… Rita took a sip of her coffee and was almost disappointed it was still piping hot. She just needed an excuse to shout at someone. The office was filled with idiots, her research was not going well, and, most importantly, her morning coffee had been  _ late _ . That was just unacceptable. Rita took another sip. Ah, yes, the caffeine was slowly surging through her veins. Cracking her knuckles, she surveyed the room. As a special correspondent, Rita was guaranteed her own office. Either that or the editor-in-chief had been in a particularly generous mood after she caught him in a rather  _ delicate  _ situation with an intern. 

Her office was a particularly nice one overlooking the nearby park with all its luscious trees -- 

Rita froze. Trees.  _ Family _ trees. Unearthing unfortunate family history was the oldest trick in a reporter’s book when it came to writing about politicians.  

“ _ Accio Pure-Blood Directory _ .” The small leather-bound book soared off a shelf and into her waiting hands. Rita ran her finger down the margin. “Crouch...Fawley...Flint...ah ha, Gaunt.” Rita flipped to the appropriate page. “ _ Accio parchment. Accio DictaQuill. _ ” 

“Gaunt family history,” Rita dictated, “according to the  _ Pure-Blood Directory _ , published in 1930. House Gaunt has roots with the Peverell family and House Slytherin. The most recent descendents of House Gaunt are Brutus Gaunt, who was the father of Marvolo Gaunt. Marvolo Gaunt sired two living children with his sister Lolita Gaunt. The eldest was a son, named Morfin, and the younger a daughter named Merope.” 

Rita frowned. There was no mention of a Thomas Gaunt anywhere. Of course, the man looked to be barely fifty, and it was entirely possible he was conceived after the book was published. He was also undoubtedly a Gaunt. The Peverell signet ring he wore as well as the inheritance tests performed by the Department of Mysteries more than proved that. The question still stood: which Gaunt was Thomas related to? Was he a secret lovechild of Marvolo and another witch? Had Morfin and Merope -- Rita shudder at the thought -- produced a child together? 

Thomas Gaunt’s lineage wasn’t publicly known. In fact, now that Rita thought of it, Thomas Gaunt had taken the Wizengamot completely by surprise. There had been no rumour of him earlier, and the Gaunt seat had been considered inactive until he showed up. The Wizengamot had been in talks to promote House Marchbanks to Lord status, but Thomas Gaunt had interceded just in time to reclaim his seat. It was odd. Quite odd. A coincidence, perhaps. Rita didn’t believe in coincidences. 

“Parentage of Thomas Gaunt could not be confirmed,” Rita told her DictaQuill, “Further research into Ministry archives and Hogwarts records will be required.” 

Rita set down the DictaQuill and drummed her fingers on the desk. “Just who are you, Thomas Gaunt,” she murmured. “I will find out. I guarantee it.” 

 


	5. Change of Pace

 

_ Platform Nine _

_ King’s Cross Station, London _

_ 1 September, 1991 _

 

Harry’s brow furrowed in confusion. To his right was a large plastic sign declaring the platform to be platform nine, and to his left was an identical one declaring the other platform to be platform ten. Harry looked at his ticket and frowned.  _ Platform Nine and Three-Quarters _ was written on top of it, plain as day. He could vaguely remember Professor Snape saying something about the platform, but he couldn’t quite remember what. 

It was something...something about how to get onto the platform. Harry racked his brain. The professor had been telling him not to use magic outside of the school, then about the barrier between platforms nine and ten. Perhaps there were specific bricks he had to tap, like in Diagon Alley? Harry shrugged and proceeded to wheel his cart over towards the barrier. With any luck, he wouldn’t be the only one heading to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, and someone could show him which bricks to tap. Unfortunately, there didn’t seem to be much going on by the barrier. A flock of tourists ambled by, then -- 

OH MY GOD DID THAT BOY JUST RUN INTO THE BARRIER?

Harry’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. It shouldn’t be possibly. It couldn’t be possible. It -- 

It was magic? 

Harry pushed his trolley closer to the barrier and blinked in surprise when two more red haired boys walked into the barrier and disappeared. If that wasn’t confirmation of magic at work, Harry wasn’t sure what was. He scanned the area. There was another gangly red haired boy standing next to a plump woman and a little girl. 

“Alright, Ron, your turn. You do remember how to get onto the platform?” 

“Yes, Mum.” 

“Best do it at a bit of a run if you’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous!” the boy -- Ron -- protested before breaking out into a fast walk towards the barrier. A second later, he vanished. Harry shrugged. It didn’t look terribly difficult. Taking a deep breath, Harry set off towards the barrier at a brisk walk. 

_ It’s not a solid brick wall, _ Harry told himself sharply.  _ Just walk through it. _ The barrier loomed closer, and he closed his eyes, bracing himself for impact…

...there was nothing. Harry cautiously opened his eyes. A wrought-iron gate stood before him emblazoned with the words  _ Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.  _ Just through the gate was a neon flashing sign informing him that the Hogwarts Express leaves at eleven o’clock. Eyes wide, Harry made his way through the gate and onto the platform where a scarlet steam engine belched copious amounts of smoke. 

Harry weaved his way through the crowd of colorfully dressed wizards to the train. Most of the compartments were already full, but he finally found one near the end that was empty. His owl, Hedwig, was easy enough to get on the train. He settled her on the luggage rack, then went back to get his trunk, which promised to be very difficult to move as it was extremely heavy. Harry tried (and failed magnificently) to heave the trunk onto the train. The trunk had barely made it over to the door, and he had already dropped it on his toe twice. 

“Want a hand?” It was one of the red-haired boys from the station. 

“Yes, please!”

“Oi, Fred, get over here you lout and help!”

“Coming, George,” said an identical boy. 

Harry looked back and forth between the pair. They looked exactly alike, down to the last freckle. Harry had the oddest feeling he was never going to be able to tell them apart.

Several minutes later, Harry’s truck was loaded onto the luggage rack. 

“Thanks for your help,” Harry said, pushing his sweaty fringe out of his eyes. 

“What’s that?” asked Fred -- or was it George? -- pointing to Harry’s lightning scar.

“Blimey!” exclaimed the other. “Are you --?” 

“I reckon he is,” said Fred. “Aren’t you?” 

“Aren’t I what?” Harry asked, feeling quite confused. He had no idea what the twins were talking about, and he was fairly certain they kept switching names.

“ _ Harry Potter _ ,” the twins chorused. 

Harry could feel his face starting to turn pink. “Er, yeah. Him. Yeah, that’s me.”

“Wicked,” breathed George. 

The twins gawked at him, and Harry fidgeted uncomfortably.  _ Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century _ had explained why he was famous, but Harry hoped no one would care too much. After all, he had been a baby at the time, and it was a whopping ten years later. 

Harry sighed. Apparently he was wrong. 

“Fred? George? Are you there?” A woman’s voice called. 

“Coming, Mum.” 

With one last look at Harry and his scar, the twins hopped off the train. 

Harry breathed a sigh of relief and rummaged around in his trunk for a book. He had accumulated several more volumes via owl order after his initial visit to Diagon Alley.  _ Elladora Black’s Guide to Pureblood Etiquette _ was by far the most boring of his new literary conquests. It was dry enough to make the Sahara Desert look like a rainforest in comparison, and it detailed all of the nitty gritty little details that pureblood lords needed to keep in mind while conversing with each other. Luckily, most of it didn’t seem to be used much outside of the government and formal dinner parties.  Harry frankly thought most of the stuffy manners seemed stupid and something he’d see in one of Aunt Petunia’s Victorian dramas. 

Harry dug around more in his trunk.  _ Liebermann’s Commentary _ had been dead useful in interpreting his other book on the Wizengamot, and  _ Rise of the Modern Wizard _ detailed the long, convoluted history of the Wizengamot as well as Wizarding Britain. His last and favorite book purchase was a box set of the  _ Auror Bartleby _ graphic novels. Aurors, it turned out, were magical detectives who hunted dark wizards, or, in the case of the books, ancient stolen magical artifacts. The box set was conveniently spelled to be self-shrinking, and when he wanted to de-shrink a book, all he had to do was tap it with his wand. Harry pulled out the latest book in the series,  _ Auror Bartleby and the Stone Circle _ , and curled up in the train seat to read. He was well immersed in the epic fight between Auror Bartleby and the dark witch Desdemona when the compartment door slid open. 

“Hello,” said a red haired boy. “Anyone sitting here?” he asked, pointing to a seat across from Harry. “Everywhere else is full.” 

“Go for it.” 

The boy sat down, staring oddly at Harry as he did. Harry raised an eyebrow, and the boy quickly turned to look out the window. 

The compartment door slid open again. “Hey, Ron,” said the twins. “We’re heading down to the middle of the train -- Lee Jordan’s got a giant tarantula down there.” 

“Right,” mumbled Ron. 

“See you later, Ron, Harry!” the twins chorused, sliding the compartment door behind them. 

Harry turned to the newly identified Ron. “So, those are your brothers then.” 

“Yeah,” Ron said morosely. 

“Must be cool, having brothers.” 

Ron shrugged. “It’s alright. Say,” he said, obviously trying to change the subject, “are you really Harry Potter?” 

Harry shot him a confused look, and Ron looked a bit sheepish. “Yeah, I am.” 

“Alright. Y’know, at first I thought it might be another one of Fred and George’s pranks. They tend to do those quite a lot.” 

“I got that feeling.”

“Really?”

“They kept swapping names.” 

“Oh. Yeah. They do that sometimes. Er, have you got, you know…” Ron lowered his voice. “The scar?”

Harry pulled back his bangs to show the lightning bolt.

“Wow,” Ron breathed. 

Harry shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, I don’t really remember anything other than a flash of green light.” 

“That’s still...wow.” 

Harry shrugged again and went back to reading his book. 

“Blimey! Is that  _ Auror Bartleby and the Stone Circle _ ?” Ron asked excitedly. 

Harry closed the book. “Yeah.” 

“I’ve been saving up my sal- er, pocket money for ages. Is it any good?” 

“You bet!” Harry exclaimed. “Did you read the one before it, _Auror Bartleby and the Samhain Skirmish_?”   
Ron nodded.

“It’s like that, only times a million! I don’t want to give anything away, but there’s this evil witch Desdemona and she does the most awful things…”

Ron cut him off.  “It’s going to be a while before I can read that book.”

“How come?” 

Ron sighed. “I spent all my pocket money from my jo- chess tournament winnings on a new set of robes and an owl. I really dodged a curse there. I was going to be stuck with Percy’s old rat otherwise. His name is Scabbers, and he’s completely useless. Percy tried to give him to me -- Mum bought him an owl because he was made prefect this year -- but I said I didn’t want him. Fred and George were a bit peeved when I brought Alekhine -- that’s my owl -- home. I earned him fair and square though. Mum was impressed that I saved up enough for an owl, though.”

“I have an owl too,” Harry said. “She was my birthday present to myself. I named her Hedwig.” 

“Where’d you find that name?”

“In the History of Magic textbook. What about your owl’s name?”

“He’s named after a chess opening invented by some muggle at the beginning of the century.”

“That’s neat.” Harry looked out the window. The tall buildings of London had been replaced by fields full of cows and sheep. They stared out the window for a while, and soon Harry’s stomach began to rumble, reminding him that he neglected to pack a lunch. Frowning, Harry went back to reading his book and started in surprise several minutes later when a cart announced itself with a great clatter outside their compartment door. 

A plump, smiling woman poked her head into their compartment. “Anything off the trolley, dears?” 

Harry jumped to his feet while Ron mumbled something about sandwiches to his worn trainers. Harry followed the trolley lady into the corridor where the strangest array of sweets stood. There were Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans -- did they really mean  _ every  _ flavor? --, Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum, Chocolate Frogs (Harry hoped they weren’t real), Pumpkin Pasties, Cauldron Cakes, and many other odd things Harry had never  seen before. Not wanting to miss anything, he bought a bit of everything except for the Cockroach Clusters, which apparently contained real cockroaches. 

Arms full of sweets, Harry nudged the compartment door shut and dumped his goodies on the seat. 

Ron raised an eyebrow. “Just a wee bit hungry, aren’t you?”

“Starving,” Harry said, unwrapping a cauldron cake. “I was so excited this morning I forgot to eat breakfast.” Harry took a bite out of the cake. It had a pleasant, almost cinnamony flavor to it. 

Ron unwrapped a carton covered in a strange shiny tape. “Bugger!”

“What?”

Ron sighed. “Someone ate some of my steak and kidney pie again. I thought it would be fine if I wrapped it up in spello tape, but no, someone just  _ had _ to go eat my lunch.” Ron stabbed the pie angrily with his fork. 

“You can have a bit of this cauldron cake, if you’d like,” Harry offered.

Ron flushed. “I’ll be alright.”

“No, seriously, I can’t possibly eat all this myself. If I did, I’d be as fat as my cousin Dudley, and he looks like a baby whale!”

Ron’s brow furrowed. “What’s a whale?”

“It’s a giant fish,” explained Harry. “Here, at least take a pumpkin pasty. I have loads of those.”

They ate in silence. The pumpkin pasties turned out to be fairly decent, but they were a little to pumpkin-y for Harry’s taste. 

“So,” Harry said conversationally. “These candies. The chocolate frogs. They aren’t  _ really _ frogs are they?” 

Ron shook his head. “Nah. They’ve got a hopping charm though, so you’ve got to be careful when you open the package. What you really want, though, is the cards. Can you toss me one? I’m still missing Agrippa.” 

“Agrippa?” 

“Famous wizard,” said Ron. “All the chocolate frog cards have famous witches or wizards on them. I think I’ve got around five hundred, but I still need Agrippa and Ptolemy.” 

Harry tossed Ron a frog and unwrapped his own. The frog ribbited, and Harry grabbed it as it tried to hop away.

“Nice catch.”

“Thanks.” Keeping a firm grip on the struggling frog, Harry slid the card out of the packaging. A wizard with long, flowing silver hair and beard, half-moon glasses, and star-spangled robes smiled back at him. Underneath the photo scrolled the name Lord Albus Dumbledore. 

“So  _ this  _ is Dumbledore!” Harry exclaimed. “Why’s he a lord though? I thought that was only a Wizengamot thing. I meant to look it up, but then I got distracted by  _ Auror Bartleby. _ ” 

Ron shrugged. “Flip the card over. There’s more information on the back.” 

Harry did as he was told. 

_ LORD ALBUS DUMBLEDORE _

_ ~ _

_ Currently Headmaster of Hogwarts _

_ ~ _

_ Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Lord Dumbledore is particularly famous for his 1945 defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald for which he was awarded an honorary lordship. Lord Dumbledore is also well-known in academia where he worked with the celebrated alchemist Nicolas Flamel to discover the twelve uses of dragon’s blood as well as further several alchemical theorems. In his spare time, Lord Dumbledore enjoys listening to chamber music and playing tenpin bowling. _

 

Harry flipped the card over, and was shocked to see that Dumbledore was gone. “Ron? Do all wizard pictures move? The textbooks had a couple moving pictures as well, but I assumed it was just for demonstration purposes.”

Ron stared at him as if he were daft. “Yes…” he said slowly. “All wizarding photos move. Why would they not?”

“Dunno.  In the muggle world, people always stay put in photos.”

“That’s strange. Look, I’ve got Morgana again. You can have her, if you’d like. You can start collecting.”

Harry gratefully accepted the card and they continued to eat the chocolate frogs. Soon, all the chocolates were gone, but Harry had a sizeable collection of Famous Witches and Wizards cards. In addition to Dumbledore and Morgana, he had Merlin (one of the most famous wizards ever), William Prince (the founder of the modern Wizengamot), Circe (an ancient Greek sorceress), Paracelsus (a famous German alchemist), and Rowena Ravenclaw (one of the Hogwarts founders).  __

Harry fiddled nervously with a wrapper. “Er, Ron?”

“What?”

“Do you reckon I’ll be miles behind when we get to school?” Harry blurted out. 

Ron looked at him in surprise. “Why would you be behind?”

“I was raised by my muggle relatives...I bet you’ve been doing magic your whole life!”

Ron shrugged. “I grew up around magic, sure, but I haven’t been able to do any on my own yet. There’s loads of people who come from muggle or mixed backgrounds, and Percy says they always do fine.”

Harry sighed in relief. “Alright. So you really don’t know any magic yet?”

“Well…”

“C’mon, Ron!”

“Percy tried to teach me this one spell, but I haven’t been able to get it to work yet…”

“Give it a go!”

Ron pulled out a battered looking wand with something shiny poking out of the end. “So, apparently this spell --” 

The compartment door slid open, and a girl with bushy brown hair walked in. 

“Have you seen a toad?” she asked. “A boy named Neville has lost one.”

Harry and Ron looked at each other. “No, we haven’t seen anything. Sorry.” 

The girl huffed. “I’ve been looking all over the train for the damned thing. Apparently it would be far too difficult for us to summon it ourselves -- the charm is fourth year level. Anyways, are you doing magic?”

“Well…”

“Go on.”

Ron pointed his wand towards an empty chocolate frog wrapper “ _ Wingardium Leviosa!”  _ he said while swishing his wand. The wrapper rolled over. 

“I think your pronunciation is a bit off,” the brown-eyed girl said. “I’ve personally tried a few of the basic spells from the first and second year textbooks and they’ve all worked for me.”

Ron looked slightly miffed. “Go on, then.” 

The girl drew her wand and pointed it at an empty chocolate frog container as the compartment door slid open yet again. “ _ Wingardium Leviosa! _ ” the girl enchanted firmly.  

Harry went slightly bug-eyed. “You made the wrapper levitate!” he exclaimed. 

“Naturally,” the girl began, clearly getting ready to launch into an explanation, only to be cut off by the latest arrival to the compartment. 

“Well, well, well,” said a pale blond boy from the door. The pale boy was about as tall as Harry was, but he was flanked by two larger boys who would give Dudley a run for his money. Privately, Harry thought they looked a bit like chimpanzees. “If it isn’t Weasley,” the pale boy drawled. 

Ron scowled. “Malfoy. What are you doing here? Still hurting after the last chess match, are you?”

A light flush stained Malfoy’s cheeks as he sneered. “No, Weasley. I heard Harry Potter was in this compartment.” He shot Harry a look. “I suppose that would be you.” 

“Yes,” Harry said. 

“I’m Malfoy,” the boy said pompously. “ _ Draco _ Malfoy. And this is Vincent Crabbe.” he pointed to lump number one. “And this is Gregory Goyle,” he said gesturing to the second.  He paused, clearly expecting some sort of reaction. Harry racked his brain. The Malfoys were one of the old families, he knew, and had a Wizengamot seat. 

“Er, great,” he said awkwardly. 

“Some of us wizards are better than others,” Malfoy continued.  “You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort. You’re sitting here consorting with Weasley while you could be with wizards such as myself, Parkinson, Nott, and Zabini. Some families have power, Potter, and while some don’t even dare to seek it.”

Harry opened his mouth to object when Ron butted in.

“What, Malfoy, are you jealous that it takes all of your little cronies to total the voting power House Weasley has?”

Malfoy flushed darker. “Shut up, Weasley. You’re too poor to do anything about it. Anyways, Potter, you’re frankly wasting your time here with Weasley.” He turned towards the girl. “Say, you aren’t related to Theodore Nott, are you? Please say yes. Perhaps Potter does have good taste after all.” 

The girl’s brow furrowed. “Theodore Nott? I don’t believe so.” 

Malfoy looked surprised. “Really? You look a bit like his older sister, Aria. What is your name?”

“Hermione Granger.”

“Granger...Granger...where have I heard that surname before,” Malfoy mused. “Oh yes, the Dagworth-Grangers! Hector Dagworth-Granger was the founder of the Moste Excellent Society of Potioneers, and a member of the Dagworth-Granger cadet branch of House Dagworth. His brother, Carlton Dagworth-Granger ended up dropping the Dagworth and forming another cadet branch with the surname Granger. Are you related to them?”

“I don’t think so,” Hermione said. “I’m the first witch in the family, you see.”

Malfoy recoiled. “You’re  _ muggleborn _ !? Inconceivable!” He shuddered dramatically, “Potter, you cannot possibly want to consort with these individuals. Let me help you make friends with the right sort.” He held out his hand.

“I think I can tell the right sort for myself, thanks,” Harry replied coolly. 

Malfoy’s cheeks turned red. “I’d be careful if I were you, Potter. If you don’t make proper allies now, you will be eaten alive in the Wizengamot when you come of age.”

Harry drummed his fingers on the seat. “What was it Ron said? He has more voting power than you do?”

“My family carries three Wizengamot votes while Malfoy’s only carries one,” Ron said smugly.

“Right,” Harry continued. “I think I’ll be perfectly alright, Malfoy. And anyways, I don’t even have to worry about this until I come of age. Not that I will worry about you, though.” 

Malfoy’s lips pressed into a hard line. “Fine then, Potter. Have it your way. Crabbe, Goyle, let’s go. I can feel my intelligence decreasing.” With that, he stalked off, slamming the compartment door behind him. 

Silence hung in the air. 

“What was that about?” Hermione asked. 

“Malfoy?” 

“Yeah. And the Wizengamot.” 

“It’s...complicated,” Ron said. “You’d be better off reading about it. There’s probably some good books in the library that’d explain it pretty well.”

“What  _ was _ his issue though?” Hermione pressed. 

Ron sighed. “The Malfoys are Blood Purists -- the most hardline sect of the Traditionalists. My family is more Progressive, and we’ve been at political odds for the last century or so.” 

“And Blood Purists are…?”

“Wizards who believe that only those of pure magical blood -- those with no direct muggle ancestry -- are worthy of studying magic.”

Hermione flinched. “That’s disgusting.”

“It’s a right load of tosh,” Ron agreed, peering out the window. “I think we’re getting close to Hogwarts now. Harry and I’ve got to put our robes on.”

“Oh. Er, I’ll leave you to it,” Hermione said, slipping out of the compartment door. 

Ron looked back at Harry. “Merlin, that girl asks the most uncomfortable questions.” 

Harry pulled his robes on. “I suppose...I mean, all of this is very strange to us, having not grown up around it.” 

“I guess that’s fair.” 

Harry straightened his tie and pulled at his robes to get them to lie right. Ron’s robes were almost too long for him, but they did a good job of covering up his worn trousers. 

A voice echoed through the train. “We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes’ time. Please leave your luggage on the train. It will be taken up to the school separately.” 

Harry gulped and glanced over at Ron who was looking slightly paler under his freckles. Soon, almost too soon, in Harry’s opinion, the train slowed to a halt and they piled out onto a small dark platform. 

A lantern bobbed in the darkness.

“Firs’ years!” boomed a voice. “Firs’ years over here!” 

Harry and Ron made their way over to the lantern, and Harry’s jaw dropped open. The tallest man he had ever seen was carrying the lantern. He was wider than even Uncle Vernon, towered taller than the Dursleys’ first floor window, and had hands the size of trash can lids.

“Any more firs’ years? Mind yer step, now! Firs’ years follow me.”

Harry and Ron followed the hairy man down a narrow gravel path. 

“Yeh’ll get yer firs’ sight o’ Hogwarts in a sec,” the man called over his shoulder, “jus’ around the bend here.” 

Harry’s eyes widened as they came around the bend. A great black lake stood before them, and on top of the cliff on the other side stood the most magnificent castle Harry had ever seen. Towers reached towards the starry sky, and flying buttresses cut away the night. Light glimmered out of what seemed like hundreds of windows. 

“No more’n four to a boat!”

Harry and Ron hopped into a boat where they were joined by Blaise Zabini who Harry remembered from the robe shop and a thin boy who introduced himself as Theo Nott. 

“Right, then. FORWARD!” the man shouted as the boats began to glide across the lake. The first years stayed silent through the rest of the boat ride and all the way up the stone passageway to the castle where they stopped in front of a set of large oaken doors. 

“What happens now?” Harry whispered to Ron, mouth dry.

“The Sorting Ceremony.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thanks goes out once again to my awesome betas, Scintilla of Myself and Sataniel. This chapter wouldn’t be nearly as nice without them!


	6. Bucking the Trend

 

_ Side Chamber _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 1 September, 1991 _

 

Several students screamed as a flock (was that the correct term?) of ghosts floated through the wall. Hermione merely raised an eyebrow. She prided herself on her inability to scare easily, and something as mundane as a group of ghosts wasn’t going to scare her. Hermione’s eyebrow climbed higher into her hair as the ghosts gasped in ‘surprise’ at the group of first years. Clearly, the whole thing was staged -- either to relax them before the Sorting Ceremony or to further terrify them, Hermione wasn’t certain. 

“Move along now,” Professor McGonagall’s sharp voice cut through the crowd, eliciting a couple more squeaks of surprise. “The Sorting Ceremony is about to start. Form a line and follow me.” 

Hermione quickly made her way over to the line and ended up between a girl with blonde pigtails and Neville Longbottom, the unfortunate boy who kept losing his toad. Professor McGonagall led them out of the antechamber and through a massive set of double doors into the Great Hall. 

It was possibly the most beautiful thing Hermione had ever seen. Thousands of candles floated over the four long tables, and the ceiling done in the gorgeous cathedral style with dozens of delicate stone arches that gave way to what looked like the night sky. 

“Does it really open to the heavens?” the girl in front of her asked daftly. 

“No,” Hermione whispered back. “It’s bewitched to look like the sky outside. I read about it in  _ Hogwarts, A History _ .” 

After what seemed simultaneously like an eternity and zero time at all, the first years were queued up on the dais. Professor McGonagall silently placed a frayed (and quite dirty!) wizard’s hat on a stool in front of them. The entire hall fell silent as the hat began to sing. Hermione listened idly. A magic, singing hat. How novel. 

 

_ You’re in safe hands (though I have none) _

_ For I’m a Thinking Cap! _

 

The Hat finished its song, and Hermione rolled her eyes at the bad joke. Honestly. What passed for a sense of humor was absurd. The hall burst into applause, then it quickly became silent again. 

Professor McGonagall stepped forward. “When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted,” she said. “Abbott, Hannah!” 

The daft girl with the pigtails stumbled out of line, plunked herself down on the stool, and pulled on the hat (which hopefully was not infested with lice). There was a long moment’s pause, then…

“HUFFLEPUFF!” 

The yellow-and-black clad table cheered. 

“Bones, Susan!” 

A girl with strawberry blonde hair walked calmly over to the stool and put the hat on. 

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

Hermione watched boredly as “Boot, Terry,” became the first Ravenclaw. It was the house she was leaning towards the most, but Boot had seemed like such an arse on the train. 

“Brown, Lavender!”

“GRYFFINDOR!”

The ditzy looking girl scuttled off to be replaced by “Bulstrode, Millicent,” a tall burly looking girl who looked like she should play football. 

“SLYTHERIN!”

The green and silver table erupted in cheers. 

“Entwhistle, Kevin!” 

“RAVENCLAW!”

Hermione tapped her foot nervously. She’d be called any moment now. 

“Goyle, Gregory!”

“SLYTHERIN!”

“Granger, Hermione!” 

Oh Go-- Merlin. Hermione walked slowly across the dais and put the hat on. 

“Hmm,” said a small voice in her ear. “Where should I put you? You’ve got a penchant for learning and a thirst for knowledge, yes, but there’s something more, perhaps.”

“How quaint,” Hermione thought. “Not only does the hat talk, but it can also read minds.”

There was mental chuckle. “Your sharp wits will serve you well. You’re certainly intelligence, ambitious. You’ve got a good amount of courage, too, and a strong sense of self-preservation. You don’t scare easily. You don’t balk at challenges. So where to put you?” 

“Isn’t that your job?” Hermione thought snidely. 

“Ah, so Hufflepuff is definitely out,” the hat mused. “And so is Gryffindor, I believe. That leaves Ravenclaw and Slytherin. Your keen mind would blossom in Ravenclaw, but your ambitions and ruthless streak -- yes, I can see that -- would thrive in Slytherin. Difficult. Very difficult. You want to use your intelligence to achieve things, I see. You believe knowledge is power, eh? Well, in that case, better be -- 

“SLYTHERIN!” the hat bellowed out the word. 

Hermione removed the hat, placed it back on the stool, and strode confidently over to the Slytherin table as Professor McGonagall called the next name. 

“Mind if I sit here?” Hermione asked, pointing to a spot next to a brown haired girl with sparkly pink nail polish.

“Go for it.” 

Hermione sat down. “My name’s Hermione. What’s yours?” 

“Tracey.” Suddenly, Tracey squealed. “Ooh, quick, scoot over a bit. Daphne’s just been sorted into Slytherin too!” Hermione budged over, and the blonde girl sat between to them. The House tables were beginning to fill up now that they’d reached the middle of the alphabet. Hermione groaned slightly when ‘Malfoy, Draco’ strutted over to the Slytherin table. Term hadn’t even officially started yet, and she could already tell he was going to be a total nightmare. She, Tracey, and Daphne cheered loudly when ‘Moon, Lilian’ joined their table and clapped for ‘Nott, Theodore,’ and ‘Parkinson, Pansy.’

“Potter, Harry!” Professor McGonagall called.

The Great Hall was silent enough to hear a pin drop. 

“Harry Potter?” the students whispered. “ _ The _ Harry Potter?” 

Hermione studied the boy from the train. He appeared to be having some sort of argument with the hat. 

“SLYTHERIN!” the hat yelled. 

There was a long pause, then the Slytherin table burst into cheers. 

A tall lanky boy stood up on the bench. “We got Potter!” he cheered. 

Harry made his way over to the table, and Hermione patted the spot on the bench beside her. 

“Thanks,” Harry said awkwardly. 

“Think nothing of it,” Hermione said primly, turning her attention back to the sorting. They were almost done now. ‘Thomas, Dean,’ a tall dark boy, was sorted into Gryffindor, and ‘Turpin, Lisa,’ a pinched face girl, made her way over to the Ravenclaw. 

“Weasley, Ronald!” 

“C’mon, Ron,” Harry mumbled.

“SLYTHERIN!” shouted the hat. 

“WHAT!?” a loud yell came from the direction of the Gryffindor table, which was quickly followed by a muffled yelp. Ron plopped down beside Harry. 

“I don’t think Fred and George are too pleased with me,” Ron said morosely. 

“Why?” Harry asked.

“My entire family has been in Gryffindor for the past two centuries.”

“Oh.” 

Hermione ignored the rest of their conversion -- it sounded like mindless boy-drivel to her -- and politely clapped as ‘Zabini, Blaise’ was sorted into Slytherin. The Headmaster rose to his feet, and Hermione crossed her fingers. With any luck, he wouldn’t make a long speech. Professor Dumbledore opened his arms and beamed at them.

“Welcome! Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! 

“Thank you!”

Chuckles broke out along the Slytherin table. 

“Is he a bit mad?” Harry asked cautiously. 

“He’s a barmy old coot!” Malfoy exclaimed. “Everybody -- sorry, all the  _ right _ sort know that.” 

“Malfoy, don’t be an idiot.” It was the lanky boy who stood on the table. “Professor Dumbledore is a bit odd -- ”

“Senile,” coughed Malfoy. 

“ -- but he’s also a complete genius. He’s the Father of Modern Alchemy along with Nicolas Flamel for one, and then there’s his work with dragon’s blood, Transfiguration laws…”

“Stuff it, Travers!” someone shouted. “You’re putting me off my food!”

Hermione looked down in surprise. The table was practically groaning with dishes filled with a wide array of foods. Hermione happily helped herself to a pork chop and roast potatoes. She was just about to spoon carrots onto her plate when a head appeared in the middle of her potatoes. 

“Hello,” Hermione said calmly as bloody ghost rose out of her dinner plate. “And who might you be?”

Tracey and Daphne shrieked in terror. Hermione continued to spoon carrots onto her plate. 

The ghost fixed her with dead eyes as silvery ghost-blood trickled down his robes.

“That’s the Bloody Baron!” Ron said helpfully. “Fred and George said he won’t say how he died. They reckon it was horrible though.”

The Bloody Baron turned his gaze to Ron, who swallowed hard.

“Er, of course, with all, er, due respect and no offense, Mr. Baron,” Ron babbled. 

The Baron stared at him for a second longer, then floated to the other end of the table.

“The Bloody Baron…” Hermione mused. “That can’t have been his birth name.” 

Travers poked his head towards their end of the table. “No, it’s not. I wouldn’t recommend asking him about it, either. The Baron’s a bit touchy about his past.”

“Oh. Alright.” Hermione tucked into her food -- it was quite delicious -- and listened to her new housemates talk.

“So, Hermione,” Daphne asked over dessert, “what are you? Bulstrode, Parkinson, and I are all Sacred Twenty-Eight, of course, and Moon’s family is one of the most powerful in the House of Lords. Tracey’s a halfblood, but her mother is a Runcorn, and her family is quite wealthy, so it’s alright. And you are…?”

Hermione swallowed hard. “Both my parents are dentists,” she said casually.

Daphne narrowed her eyes. “Dentists? What are dentists?”

“They fix people’s teeth.”  

Daphne blanched. “Your parents are  _ muggles _ ?” 

“Yes.”

“You’re  _ muggleborn _ ?”

“Obviously.” 

Daphne was clearly flummoxed. “But you’re so well-adjusted…” 

“...thanks?” Hermione was fairly certain Daphne’s opinion of her had just plummeted. 

Daphne neatly re-arranged her silverware and delicately dabbed her face with a napkin. “Look, Hermione, you can’t be responsible for the circumstances of your birth and upbringing. I’ll have you know that my family doesn’t buy into all the ridiculous notions about muggleborns being less powerful than us pureblooded wizards,” she said slightly pompously. “My father actually spearheaded a proposition for muggleborns to be fostered with wizarding families. It’s not the individual we take issue with, it’s the upbringing.” Daphne folded her napkin and smiled winningly at Hermione. 

Hermione stared at her in shock. Did Daphne think she was being polite? Was this what passed for manners among wizards? Hermione was oddly reminded of the wealthy society ladies who would talk about helping the ‘poor, starving children of Africa’ while wearing dresses worth thousands of pounds. The girl had no idea what she was talking about...it was almost as if she thought Hermione had been raised by cavemen! 

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” said Hermione coolly. “I wouldn’t want to lump you with the others.” 

Daphne beamed at her, and Hermione heaved an internal groan. Term hadn’t even started yet, and her  _ eleven-year-old  _ classmates were already bothering her with their politics. As far as Hermione could tell, going to university was far less common in the wizarding world than in the muggle one, but it didn’t mean her classmates had to start politicking at  _ eleven _ . 

Hermione poked at her dessert, but she wasn’t really hungry anymore. Finally, the last of the desserts had been cleared away and the Headmaster stood up. 

Hermione half-paid attention to the pre-term speech. In a shocking turn of events, the Forbidden Forest was  _ forbidden _ \-- imagine that. 

“And finally,” said Professor Dumbledore, “I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death.” 

“Bloody hell…” said Ron Weasley. 

“Is that normal?” Harry asked. 

Ron frowned. “I don’t think so…”

“Bloody hell…alright then.”

“And now,” Professor Dumbledore exclaimed happily, “let us sing the school song!” 

A long gold ribbon shot out of Professor Dumbledore’s wand and twisted into the corniest lyrics Hermione could imagine. 

“Pick your favorite tune and off we go!”

The resulting sound was, quite frankly, horrendous. Hermione resisted the urge to cover her ears and instead mumbled along with everyone else. 

“Ah, music,” sighed Professor Dumbledore. “A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!” 

There was a great clattering as all the students stood up. 

“First year Slytherins, over here!” called a tall girl with brown curly hair. “First year Slytherins to me.” 

Travers hopped back on the table and waved his arms like an air traffic controller. “Oi, first years, come this way.” 

Hermione and the rest of the first year girls made their way over. 

“Alright you lot,” said Travers. “I’m Bryant Travers --”

“-- and I’m Aria Nott,” the girl added. “We’re your fifth year prefects.” 

“We’ll be escorting you to the common room tonight, and if you ever have questions, please come and ask us.” 

“Our common room is located in the dungeons. Follow Bryant and I closely, please. Come along.” 

The first years dutifully followed Bryant and Aria through the entrance hall and down two flights of stairs to the dungeon level. 

“Make sure you’re keeping track of landmarks,” Bryant said. “We’re taking a left turn here, next to the statue of Damien Slytherin. Keep up now. Our next turns are right, left, left. Be certain to remember that. You don’t want to get lost in the dungeons.”    

They walked down a long corridor before taking one last turn in front of the tapestry of Sebastian Amare, one of Salazar Slytherin’s close confidents, before stopping before a stretch of blank wall. Bryant spread his arms dramatically. 

“This, ladies and gentlewizards, is the entrance to Slytherin common room. For the past seven centuries, no one but Slytherins have entered this room. You will keep up this trend, I hope.”

The first years nodded fervently. 

“Our Head of House, Professor Snape, sets our password to change every two weeks,” Aria explained.  “As some of you may know, Professor Snape is the Potions Master here at Hogwarts, and he tends to choose potions ingredients as our passwords. This week’s password is  _ Moonstone _ .” 

With that, the wall slid open to reveal a long low room. The lighting was odd, almost greenish in color. 

“Come along now. Plenty of time to gawk later.” 

Hermione followed Moon and Bulstrode into the common room. The furniture was dark, almost gothic in style. Several low couches sat before a massive fireplace, and thick rugs covered the stone floor. Dark wooden cupboards and bookshelves lined the walls along with large tapestries depicting medieval wizards. Dark windows stood on either side of the fireplace. 

The rest of Slytherin house appeared to be waiting for them. 

“Settle yourselves in, first years,” Aria said. “Professor Snape prefers to make his own start-of-term announcements. He should be here shortly.” 

Hermione squeezed onto a couch with the other first year girls while Malfoy kicked one of his goons out of an armchair so he could sit down. Harry and Ron sat on the floor. 

“Welcome,” said a voice from the shadows, “to Slytherin House.” A tall, thin man with an aquiline nose stepped into the light. He had shoulder length black hair with an almost greasy sheen to it. “For those of you who do not know me,” his eyes swept over the first years, “I am Professor Snape, Head of Slytherin House. As Slytherins, we are known for our cleverness. Our ambition. Our resourcefulness. Our cunning.” Professor Snape folded his arms. “We represent future leaders. Business owners. Aurors. Politicians. As Slytherins, we are more than a just a school house. We are a family. We are a network. We are driven to succeed, and we get results.” 

Professor Snape paced in front of them. “We protect our own. Slytherin disputes are settled in the Slytherin common room. When you are real adult witches and wizards, you will not settle your petty squabbles out in the open. You will do so with decorum and behind closed doors. Slytherin House as a long and illustrious history, and I will not see it sullied on my watch. 

“Many of you already believe yourselves to be clever and cunning. You are not. Trust me. I know. I have a zero-tolerance policy for rule-breaking. If you do not believe me,” his eyes flickered over to the first years again, “ask the upper years about the detentions I devise. Believe me, you do not want to experience them. 

“For the past seven years, Slytherin has won the House Cup. I fully expect to win it again this year. This means each and every one of you needs to be in top form in the classroom, in the halls, and on the Quidditch Pitch. Do not disappoint me. For those of you who struggle academically, there is a tutoring system in place. Sign-ups take place on the bulletin board to my right. 

“For those of you interested in playing Quidditch, try-out information will be posted over the course of the next two weeks by our team captain, Marcus Flint.” 

There were several cheers. 

“If you have any questions or problems, do not hesitate to ask any of our prefects. Bryant Travers and Aria Nott represent our fifth years; Atticus Warrington and Margaret Montague represent our sixth years; and Podrick Parkinson and Petra Gamp represent our seventh years. Miss Gamp is also Head Girl. Byron Rivers of Ravenclaw is Head Boy. 

“If you have a serious problem, come directly to me. The corridor on the left hand side of the common room will lead you directly to my office, which is behind a portrait of Salazar Slytherin. Knock thrice if you need assistance.

“I trust all of you will do well this term. I will see you in the Great Hall at seven o’clock sharp for breakfast.” 

Professor Snape turned on his heel and vanished back into the shadows. 

“Alright, first years,” said Aria, “the stairs to my right lead to your dorms. Girls are on the fireplace side, boys are on the bookcase side. Your dorm room will be labeled with your year. Questions? No? Off you go to bed.”  

Hermione sleepily followed the rest of the first year girls down the wrought-iron spiral staircase and into the room labeled first years. Inside were six four-poster beds with dark green hangings. A door in the back led to the washroom. 

Too tired to talk much, Hermione pulled on her pajamas, ignoring snide remarks from Pansy Parkinson about the ‘terrible muggle-ness’ of them. Hermione crawled between her sheets, pulled the hangings shut, and fell asleep almost immediately. 

Tomorrow would be exciting, that was for certain.

 


	7. Pride and Prejudices

# 

 

_ Slytherin Dorms _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 2 September, 1991 _

 

“Severus is my  _ godfather _ ,” Draco Malfoy said snobbishly for the umteenth time. 

Ron resisted the urge to bash his head repeatedly against the wall. 

“My father has known Severus for ages,” Malfoy continued in his annoying whiny voice. “We have him over for tea, on occasion. He tutors me in potions, too. Says I’ll be top of the class.” 

Ron rolled his eyes. “Bet he was lying through his teeth when he said that.”

“Shut up, Weasley. You’re poor,” Malfoy snapped. 

“Wow,” Ron said sarcastically. “You know, I might have been offended by that had you not said it at least twenty times already.”  

“I now see why his parents never bothered reproducing again,” drawled a voice from the corner. “Most Wizengamot Houses aim for three children, do they not, Draco? Two sons, to carry on the name, and a daughter to marry off? I understand why his parents would be discouraged, after producing him.” 

Malfoy flushed red and stormed off into the washroom with a comb.

“Nice one,” Ron commented. “I haven’t seen him flush that darkly yet.”

The voice chuckled. “I have know Draco for quite some time now. Annoying him is one of my favorite pastimes.” The boy slid off his four-poster. “I am Blaise Zabini, by the way. You are Ronald Weasley, I presume?” he asked, extending a hand in greeting. 

To his credit, Ron didn’t flinch. “It’s Ron,” he said, shaking Blaise’s hand, mind whirling at a million kilometers an hour. Blaise Zabini. Blaise  _ Zabini _ . Sweet Merlin…

“Excellent.” Blaise studied him for a second. “You know, it always amused me that your bloodline is older than Draco’s. I think he forgets that sometimes. You ought to remind him of it more often.” 

“Er, alright.” 

Blaise nodded, then headed back to his trunk. Ron heaved an internal sigh of relief. He was sharing a room with the son of Maura Zabini. Merlin help him. 

Ron rummaged around in his trunk. Luckily, his new robes were still clean. He pulled them on over his shirt and trousers, then headed over to Harry’s four poster. 

“Oi, Harry, are you awake?” 

A massive yawn came from behind the curtains. “I’m awake, Aunt Petunia.”

Ron laughed. “Harry, I’m not your Aunt Petunia. C’mon, get up. We’re supposed to be at breakfast in ten minutes!” 

Harry rolled out of bed and dressed at lightning speed, and several minutes later the boys walked into the Great Hall. Whispers followed them through the door.

“Do you see him?”

“Where?”

“Over there, next the tall kid with the red hair.”

“Can you believe he’s in Slytherin?”

“Must be going bad…”

Harry groaned. “People are talking about me again.” 

Ron looked at him. “You are the  _ famous _ Harry Potter.” 

“Argh!” 

Ron laughed. “Get used to it, mate.”

Harry sighed theatrically, and they sat down at the Slytherin table to tuck into breakfast. It was great, Ron reflected, being at school. He no longer had to worry about Fred or George stealing his toast, and there was enough food for him to have seconds…

“Nott. Parkinson. Potter.” Bryant floated schedules over to the first years. “Weasley. Zabini. These are your schedules.”

Ron looked at his schedule and groaned. Potions was first. 

“Alright, you lot,” Bryant said. “You all have Potions first today. As a bit of special advice, just because I’m a nice friendly sort of fellow, I would recommend reviewing chapter one of your textbook. Professor Snape likes to quiz students.” 

“Oh joy,” Harry muttered. 

Ron felt the same way. Even Percy hadn’t liked Professor Snape, and Percy practically  _ hero-worshipped  _ all of the professors. Ron poked at his eggs, which suddenly looked less appetizing than they did a minute ago. 

Bryant clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t be morose, Ron. Just between the two of us, Professor Snape is a lot easier on Slytherins.” He stood up. “Good luck today, first years. If you get lost or have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask any of the older Slytherins. And whatever, you do, don’t ask Peeves for directions!” With that, he left. 

“I guess we should go get our books, then,” Harry said. 

Ron abandoned his eggs, and grabbed a piece of toast instead. “Yeah. You ready to go now?”

Harry nodded, and they set off towards the dungeons. By some miracle, they managed to locate their Potions textbooks and kits, and get to the classroom on time. Most of the other Slytherins were already there, along with two Gryffindors. One was Neville Longbottom, whose birthday party Ron had once been forced to attend, and Ron was pretty sure the other one’s name was Malone. The Gryffindors were complaining about a roommate who snored. Ron and Harry walked past them to where Hermione from the train was rattling off a list of facts about potions ingredients to her table partner, who Ron vaguely remembered being introduced to as Moon. The pale blonde girl was nodding at everything Hermione was saying. 

Ron gulped. “Maybe we should’ve studied more,” Ron whispered to Harry, jerking a thumb in the direction of Hermione. They had meant to study the textbook, but they hadn’t gotten past the c’s before they got distracted by conversations of Quidditch. 

Worriedly, they sat down, and Ron pulled his book out. Maybe a little more of the information would sink into his brain. 

_ Daisy, _ Ron read.  _ A common European wildflower with a yellow center and white petals. Its roots are used in both the Shrinking Solution and the extracted Essence of Daisyroot is a base for some of the more complex healing potions. _

The rest of the class had filed in, and Ron looked around nervously to see if Professor Snape had arrived yet. The Gryffindor girls in the back row were gossiping, Malfoy was telling a joke to his cronies, and Hermione was studying the textbook. 

Ron blinked, and suddenly Professor Snape was standing at the front of the classroom holding a long roll of parchment. The dungeon door shut with a soft bang, and several Gryffindors jumped. 

“I will begin by taking roll,” Professor Snape said with a sneer. “Raise your hand when I call your name. “Brown… Bulstrode… Crabbe… Davis… Dunbar…” 

Ron tuned the professor out and continued reading his textbook.

_ Dandelion root. The root of a weedy, composite plant with yellow flowers and hairy white seeds. Dandelion roots can be used in tea as well as in potions. They strengthen the body’s natural defenses to illnesses and are key ingredients in many poison antidotes due to their cleansing properties.   _

“Patil… Parkinson… ” Professor Snape paused for a heartbeat. “Potter…” 

_ Death cap. A highly poisonous mushroom that is the primary ingredient in the Death-Cap Draught. The Draught is also highly poisonous, and causes death by asphyxiation.  _

“Spinks… Thomas… Weasley…” 

Ron raised his hand.

“And Zabini. Everyone is present.” With a wave of his hand Professor Snape banished the scroll to his desk and began to pace around the classroom. “You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making,” he began, fixing each one of them with hard dark eyes. “As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is even magic, I do not expect you will truly understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses… I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death -- if you are not as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach.” 

Silence filled the room, except for a pair of whispering girls in the back row. Ron and Harry exchanged a look. Professor Snape clearly meant business, and if he could teach Ron how to brew glory…maybe it was worth it.  

“Brown!” Professor Snape snapped. 

The gossiping Gryffindor jumped. 

“What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?” 

The curly haired girl was obviously stumped. 

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t know,  _ sir _ ,” Professor Snape corrected sharply. “Let us see if another member of the class will be more successful… Potter! Where would you look if I told you to find a bezoar?” 

Ron heaved an internal sigh of relief. This was one of the ones they studied! 

“In the stomach of a…goat? Sir?” Harry answered nervously. 

“Correct. Longbottom!” The round faced boy looked panicked. “What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?”  
The boy looked flummoxed, then stuttered something incomprehensible.   

“It does not count as an answer, Longbottom, if I cannot understand you.” 

Malfoy snickered. 

“A-aren’t th-they the s-same th-thing?” Longbottom managed. 

“Correct. Monkshood and wolfsbane are the same plant, commonly known as aconite. Now, can anyone answer the question Miss Brown missed earlier? Malfoy?”

“Asphodel and wormwood are key ingredients in a sleeping potion known as the Draught of Living Death,” Malfoy said, his obnoxious voice ringing through the dungeon.

“Correct. Two points to Slytherin.” 

Draco smiled smugly. Ron resisted the urge to punch him in the face for the second time that day. 

“Today,” Professor Snape said with a sneer, “you will attempt the Boil Cure potion located on page three of your textbook. Well? What are you waiting for? Get started.” 

Ron took out his potions kit and began weighing dried nettles while Harry crushed snake fangs. They added twenty milliliters of distilled water to their cauldron along with three horned slugs. Then, they slowly heated the cauldron to 37.78 degrees for seven minutes, and carefully tipped the dried nettles and crushed snake fangs to the bubbling grey base. 

“If you look here at Mr. Malfoy’s cauldron,” Professor Snape said, “you will have a visual demonstration of what perfectly stewed horned slugs look like.”

“Our slugs looked like that, and Professor Snape didn’t say anything,” Harry complained. 

“I wouldn’t say anything about it,” Ron cautioned. “Apparently he can turn nasty very quickly. Even Percy --” 

Clouds of acid green smoke and a loud hissing noise interrupted Ron.

“Longbottom!” Snape snarled. “Idiot boy! I suppose you added porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire?” 

The boy whimpered something in response, and Ron felt bad. The angry red boils cropping up all over Longbottom’s arms and legs looked painful. Professor Snape continued to berate the Gryffindors, and Ron turned back to his potion.

“Alright, it’s time to take it off the fire and add the quills.” 

Harry extinguished the fire while Ron gingerly moved the cauldron to the cooling stand. 

“The directions say to add five quills.” 

Harry dropped in five porcupine quills. The potion bubbled vigorously for a moment, then turned a pale shade of green.

“Wicked,” Harry breathed. “Ron, we’re really doing magic!” 

Ron nodded in agreement. Potions were a lot cooler than he initially thought they would be.

At the end of the class, Ron and Harry successfully decanted their potion and handed it to Professor Snape. While it didn’t look quite as good as the one brewed by Hermione and Moon -- whose first name turned out to be Lily -- it looked just as good as the potion Draco ‘Potions Prodigy’ Malfoy produced. 

“What class do we have next?” Harry asked as they climbed the stone steps out of the dungeon. 

“Transfiguration. Which should be -- oh, bother.”

“What?”

“My brothers,” Ron said, pointing to the approaching trio of redheads. “I don’t think they’re pleased I’m in Slytherin.”   

“Ickle Ronniekins!” 

Ron groaned.

“We can’t believe -”

“-that our dear ickle Ronniekins -”

“-ended up in sneaky Slytherin!” the twins exclaimed. 

“Er, yeah,” Ron said awkwardly. The twins didn’t look too mad, which was a good sign.

Percy arrived, and pushed his horned rimmed glasses officiously up his nose. “Ronald,” he said formally. “I wish to congratulate you on your sorting into Slytherin. No Weasley has been sorted there for the past three centuries,” he began, only to be cut off by a sharp female voice.

“What, are you mad at your brother because he got sorted into the house of the ambitious and you didn’t?” Hermione from the train asked, hands on her hips.

Percy looked taken aback. “No…no, not at all… I merely wished to congratulating him on breaking the trend…”

“Well, it didn’t sound like that,” Hermione said. 

“I -- ”

“I don’t know about you, but we have a class to get to. So, unless you wish to accompany us to Transfiguration, we’ll be leaving your company now.” 

Hermione turned on her heel and marched up the stairs. Ron shrugged, half-heartedly waved to his brothers and followed her. 

“Look, Hermione, you didn’t need to say all that,” Ron said uncomfortably. “It’s just my brothers. They weren’t saying anything bad.” 

Hermione sniffed. “That’s not what it looked like to me. Anyways, Slytherins stick together, yes?”

“Yeah…” 

Hermione strode off down the corridor, and Ron and Harry exchanged a look. 

“Girls,” Harry said in mock sageness, “What can you do?”

Ron stared at Hermione’s retreating figure. 

“Not much in her case.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: In the film version of this playing in my head, Percy Weasley is played by a ginger Eddie Redmayne.
> 
> Many thanks go out to both my betas. A special shout out goes to Sataniel who came up with the chapter title.


	8. Predictions and Predilections

 

_ The North Tower _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 22 September 1991 _

 

Thick smoke and heavy incense floated through the air. Sybill inhaled deeply, swirling a glass of sherry counterclockwise with her right hand as she paced the room. The stone floors were warm beneath her feet, and the transparent ceiling let in the light of the stars. The room, located at the highest point of the North Tower, was devoid of decoration save an ebony table and two oaken stools. 

Sybill crumpled a handful of herbs, strewing them through the air. She inhaled again, taking in their heady scent. Gently swirling, the glass, Sybill took a sip of sherry and knelt before the ebony table, still swirling the glass. She drained it and pulled the crystal ball close, hands circling its surface seven times. She blew across it gently, sherry fumes mixing with the herbs in the air. 

Sybill took a deep breath and gazed beyond the silver runes into the misty depths of the crystal ball. Grey fog roiled, almost obscuring two faint figures. 

“The storm approaches. The rising knight and the lost one will unite. Not yet, no, they are still searching for each other, but soon, very soon. The forged sword will be drawn. I can see it all here… the timing is uncertain, yes, but the sword will unwittingly come into play, yes. Dominos, yes, perhaps. Different shades, different colors. Nothing is certain.” 

Sybill blew across the glass again, and shivered as a shrouded figure rose from the depths. “Shiva, my darling, the destroyer of worlds, yes, his time will come as well. Shiva will rise again, the beautiful destroyer. Perhaps tomorrow, in a month, in a year. He will rise, nonetheless. He is cloaked in shadow. His fate is uncertain.” Another figure emerged.

“Ah, yes,” Sybill murmured, “The broken one. The poor bird without wings. Still unable to fly…he is caught in Venus’ thrall, I see. He will have to break free if he is to survive the destroyer’s wakening.”

Sybill blew on the glass, breath swirling around the globe. “The dark one and the marked one. Oh glorious, sweet, sweet destruction. You sit in a web of lies, like the great arachnids of the forest. You are considering, yes, your next move is uncertain. The possibilities… darkness lies before you…” 

Sybill blinked, pulling out of the trance. Points of light danced before her eyes. “The stars… yes, my old friends.” Sybill stood and pulled a scroll from a nearby shelf. Settling back on her heels, Sybill unrolled a vast chart, deep indigo ink staining worn calfskin. Complex runes spiraled out from the center, and astrological signs lined the edges. Sybill inhaled deeply, nose nearly skimming the surface of the scroll. “Yes, yes, I do believe I will See …” 

Sybill took another gulp of sherry, this time straight from the bottle. 

“Jupiter, king of the heavens, lying in shadow. Uranus and Mars wander the skies together… an odd combination, perhaps. Not one we have seen recently, and one with  _ potential _ .” 

Her guest made a noise of agreement. 

“Change,” Sybill continued. “If Uranus fully ascends, and ascends with Mars, with fire, with  _ power _ … and on a collision course with Mercury. Taking things apart and putting them back together, and not necessarily how they belonged… Saturn will be needed more than ever. Ketu and Rahu, the shadow planets, lie in wait. If Saturn is ascendant, Ketu and Rahu will not rise immediately. Their timing is key, for Rahu seeks to knock Jupiter out of the heavens… a mighty task and one he must not accomplish…otherwise,  Jörmungandr will be upon us all.  Ragnarök will rent the earth asunder, and end the age of man. ”

A heavy silence descended. 

“And what of Neptune?” the guest wondered.

“Many questions and few answers,” Sybill replied. “Neptune is slowly rising. Ketu may join. Ketu may not. Nothing is clear yet. Pluto overshadows Venus. Nothing is certain.”

“And the significance of Mabon?” 

Sybill stretched like a cat. “The festival lends me a clearer vision. Not the best I’ve had, but not the worst either. I have the strangest feeling about Samhain…” Sybill trailed off.

“What about Samhain?” The visitor asked urgently.

“One of the events will come to pass. I will scry again, then, when the Veil is thinnest. Your cup?”

The visitor wordlessly passed Sybill her teacup.  “The cross, my dear. You have trials and suffering in your future.” Sybill rotated the cup. “One branch leads to the sun, great happiness, the other to the skull, great danger.” Sybill rotated the cup again. “You did not heed my words, did you?” Sybill asked softly.

The visitor remained silent.

“You continue to consort with Jupiter, at great personal risk.” Sybill gazed at her guest, eyes wide. “My dear,” she said quietly. “You have the Grim in your cup.” 

The visitor shrugged. “It’s been there for the last ten years, ever since I started on this path. And I am still alive.”  

“That is true,” Sybill conceded, “but the question is for how long? Tiw did not wish for you to walk this path; however, the decision is yours. One cannot determine the path their creations follow.” 

Sybill turned to the alcove in the back of the room. Vanishing momentarily behind a curtain, she emerged with a heavy bronze tray with runes inlaid along its edges. She placed it carefully on the table, then returned to the alcove. 

“ _ Pugionem ego te, _ ” Sybill said softly, lifting a silver dagger out of its case. She caressed it with one hand, and in the other picked up a wriggling rat. She carried both to the table, depositing the rat in the tray. “ _ Frater mus pugione sumo vos patresque invocas conspectum voluntatem Tiw Frey et quaerendo et ambulavi in via iacet. Sicut et ego tui effundet exta ego gratias ago gratias meo. _ ”

With that, Sybill drew the dagger and sliced the rat down its center. Dark red blood poured from the gash, and the rotten smell of offal filled the air, mixing oddly with the perfumes of the room. Sybill inhaled deeply. 

“The sacrifice was well received,” Sybill intoned. “The liver is strong, tilting fate in favor of Mercury. The intestines…” the visitor suppressed a shudder as Sybill ran her fingers over the coiled organ. “Are longer than usual, showing a long road ahead. The intestines contain a substantial amount of fecal matter. The road will not be easy, and there will be many challenges to overcome.” Sybill cracked the ribs open and gasped quietly. “The heart… there is a blemish on the heart. Venus will have a particularly difficult journey. The blemish … in conjunction with the position of Jupiter … Jupiter will be forced to act, and sooner than he would have planned. He will not show his hand, no, but he will be forced to do  _ something _ …” Sybill trailed off, hands still stained with blood. 

“It makes me wonder,” Sybill said. “It really makes me wonder.”

* * *

 

_ Defense Against the Dark Arts Classroom _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 27 September 1991 _

 

Professor Quirrell clapped his hands sharply. “Time is up! Quizzes to me, please.” 

Hermione nervously brought her quiz to the front of the class. She and Lily had spent plenty of time studying together the night before, but Hermione was worried she hadn’t written enough about how to get rid of poltergeists. Sighing, she passed her quiz in to Professor Quirrell and returned to her seat. The question  _ had _ said to list three ways to deal with poltergeists, but she’d hadn’t  _ fully _ explained how to get rid of them…

“How do you think you did, Hermione?”

“Alright, I suppose. I was going to write more for one of the questions, but ran out of time. I’m so glad we studied together last night, though!”

Lily grinned. “Same! We were spot on about the ghosts -- I’m pretty sure I even got the extra credit correct.” 

“Nice! I wonder,” Hermione said, lowering her voice, “how our dear friend Pansy did.” The dark haired girl was scowling and whispering frantically with Daphne. 

“Unless she has a secret Time-Turner, there’s no way she could have studied as much as us. She, Daphne, and Tracey spent all last night gossiping. Apparently Pansy thinks Draco is cute!”

Hermione’s eyes grew round with horror. “Eww! No way!”

“Yes, way!”

Hermione made mock retching noises. 

“It gets worse, too.”

“What! How?”

“Daphne thinks Blaise is cute, and we all know that he --”

Professor Quirrell cleared his throat, and Lily fell silent. “We only have five minutes remaining in class, so it is useless to start on a new topic. Instead, I am going to open the floor to questions, should you have any for me.” 

“Can we ask about anything?” Crabbe blurted. 

“As long as it is within reason.”

“So why do you wear a turban?” Crabbe demanded.

“Raise your hand, Mr. Crabbe.”  
Turning slightly red, Crabbe raised his hand. 

“Yes, Mr. Crabbe?”

“Why do you wear a turban? Sir?” 

“It’s a long and complicated story…” Professor Quirrell trailed off dramatically.

The entire class was suddenly paying attention. 

“Please tell us, sir!” Goyle piped up. 

“Yeah, please tell us!”

“Please!” 

“It’s got to be a  _ wicked _ story…”

Professor Quirrell held up a hand. “I’m afraid I cannot tell you that story.” 

Protests filled the air. 

“Aww, come on, professor -- ”

“We really want to know -- ”

“Please -- ” 

“You truly wish to know?” Professor Quirrell asked, quirking an eyebrow.

There was a resounding chorus of yeses. 

“I suppose,” Professor Quirrell began, “if you must know, I was gifted it by a Ugandan prince.” 

“Why?” demanded Crabbe. 

“For vanquishing a rather troublesome Inferus -- a zombie, as some of you may call it.”

“How’d you do it?” Goyle asked.

Professor Quirrell smiled, and Hermione noticed with a shiver that it didn’t reach his eyes. “I could tell you, Mr. Goyle, but then I would have to kill you. That would be a rather unfortunate occurrence, wouldn’t it?” 

The class simultaneously gulped, and Goyle paled. “Yes, sir.” 

Professor Quirrell brightened. “Excellent. Now, I do believe we’re out of time for today. Remember to complete the supplemental reading on the ghosts of Hogwarts and the accompanying questions for Tuesday’s class.” With that, the professor swept off into his office. 

“Well, that was an interesting class,” Hermione muttered as she piled her parchment back into her book bag. 

Lily raised an eyebrow. “Understatement, much?”

Hermione shrugged. “Eh, it was just the last bit that was odd.” She lifted her bag onto her shoulder. “Ready to go to Charms?” 

“Give me one moment...okay, I’m ready.”  

They headed out the classroom door and towards the Charms corridor. 

“So,” Lily said, “I was thinking -- ”

“Always a dangerous pastime.”

“Shut it, Hermione. Anyway, I was thinking we could add Millicent to our study group.” 

Hermione wrinkled her nose. She hadn’t talked to the burly girl much, but their other roommate never seemed very friendly. “Millicent?” 

“Yeah. She doesn’t like hanging out with Parkinson much.”

“Can’t say I blame her.”

“Right? So, what do you think?”

“I don’t know -- I don’t really know what she’s like.”

“Quiet. Level-headed. She was part of my playgroup.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it was me, Millicent, Pansy, Daphne, Draco, and Theo.”

“Sounds like fun,” Hermione said, lacing sarcasm into her voice. “Wait, Tracey wasn’t part of your group?”

“She’s a halfblood, and not Sacred Twenty-Eight besides. I mean, I’m not Sacred Twenty-Eight either, but my family’s been pureblood for ages plus Father has enough political connections to make even Lord Malfoy nervous.” 

“What’s Sacred Twenty-Eight?” Hermione asked. It sounded like some sort of whacked out religious cult, but one could never be sure in the Wizarding world. 

“It’s kind of a stupid thing, really. No one really takes it into stock except for those who are apart of it.”

“So what is it?”

“The twenty-eight British families who were still ‘truly pureblood’ as of the 1930s.”

“So that’s why Pansy acts like she’s got a stick up her arse.”

Lily grimaced. “Got it in one.”

 


	9. Flying Englishmen

# 

_ Front Lawns _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 2 October 1991 _

 

Harry eyed the broom nervously. Its bristles were sticking out every which way, and the handle looked like it’d give him a bad splinter. 

The Flying instructor, Madam Hooch, paced up and down the line, fixing each one of them with sharp yellow eyes. 

“Welcome to Flying class,” she began. “Some of you may already be familiar with Flying --” 

Malfoy coughed importantly. 

“-- while others of you may not. You will listen to me at all times, and you will treat each other with respect.” Her eyes lingered for an extra second over Malfoy. “Alright, everyone stand by a broomstick.” The Gryffindors, who had arrived late, scrambled to claim a broom without shredded bristles. “Stick out your right hand over your broom,” instructed Madam Hooch, “and say ‘UP!’” 

“UP!”

To Harry’s pleasant surprise, his broom smacked firmly into his hand. Ron shot Harry a grin. He also had been successful, as had Zabini, and, Harry noted sourly, Malfoy. After a couple more tries, the rest of the class had gotten their brooms off the ground, with the exception of Longbottom from Gryffindor who had to pick his up. In Harry’s opinion, Longbottom hadn’t seemed too enthused about flying, so perhaps his broom had sensed that, somehow. 

“Can everyone see me?” Madam Hooch asked. “Can everyone hear me? Good. Measure three handgrips down from the top of the handle, and place your wand hand there. Your other hand should be placed half an elbow length below your wand hand. Mr. Malfoy! You need to be holding three handgrips down from the top of the handle, not one.”

“My flying tutor taught me otherwise,” Malfoy whined. 

“Do I look like your flying tutor?” she barked.

“No, but -- ”

“This is my class, and you will do as I say,” Madam Hooch snapped. 

Malfoy sulkily adjusted his grip. 

“Now,” Madam Hooch said, “when I blow my whistle, you kick off the ground, hard. Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle -- three -- two -- ”

Longbottom shot off like a rocket, and Harry heaved an internal groan. Why did the clumsy Gryffindor always have to muck things up? 

“Come back, Longbottom!” Madam Hooch shouted. 

Longbottom was either unwilling or unable to fly back down. Harry watch as his scared face peeked over the side of the broom, then --

“ _ Wingardium Leviosa! _ ” Hermione yelled, swishing and flicking her wand which had seemingly appeared from nowhere. 

To Harry’s great surprise, Longbottom shrieked in pain as he was suddenly yanked upwards by his robes.

Madam Hooch’s jaw dropped open, and she quickly drew her wand and muttered something that made Longbottom float slowly to the ground. 

“Are you alright, boy?” 

Longbottom, who was pasty to start out with, paled even further, stumbled a few steps to the right, then proceeded to vomit in front of Madam Hooch’s boots. 

“I suppose not then,” the Flying instructor sighed.  “None of you are to move while I take this boy to the Hospital Wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you’ll be out of Hogwarts before you can say ‘Quidditch’! Oh, and Miss Granger, ten points to Slytherin for quick thinking.” 

She escorted the queasy looking Neville away, and no sooner had they gone then Malfoy opened his mouth. 

“Look what I found,” Malfoy said smarmily, tossing a glass ball in his hand. “It’s some stupid thing Longbottom’s gran sent him.” 

“What, Malfoy, are you resorting to stealing now to get your daddy’s attention?” Ron taunted.

“Shut up, Weasley, you’re poor.”

“Don’t you have any other comebacks?” Hermione asked disdainfully. “All you do is insult Ron’s family’s monetary status.”

“Do you hear someone talking?” Malfoy asked. 

Pansy Parkinson sniggered. 

“I think I should leave this somewhere for Longbottom to find,” Malfoy continued, smiling nastily. 

“Desperate, Malfoy?” Harry asked, surprising himself. 

Malfoy paused, one leg already slung over his broom. “What, Potter?” 

Harry gulped, then pushed on. “Desperate for attention, are you?” 

Malfoy smirked. “Of course not, Potter.” He pushed off the ground lightly and hovered just above their heads, casually throwing and catching the glass ball.

Harry was strongly reminded of Dudley. “Give it here, Malfoy,” he said.

“I don’t think I will,” Malfoy said, floating higher. “In fact, that tree over there looks like the perfect place to leave this, and since Potter is obviously too scared to stop me…”

Harry picked up his broom.

“Don’t do it, mate,” Ron said. “He’s just goading you on…”

Harry blocked Ron’s voice out, his hands settling into a comfortable handgrip as he swung a leg over the broom and pushed off the ground. Wind whipped through his hair as a wonderful swooping sensation settled in his stomach. He was flying. He was free. 

“Who’s scared now, Malfoy?” Harry asked, pushing his broom level to face even with Malfoy. 

The other boy sneered, but it wasn’t a particularly successful attempt. “Beginner’s luck.” 

Harry gritted his teeth, and leaned forward, causing his broom to shoot forward like he’d been shot from a cannon. 

Malfoy hastily dodged as a couple people below cheered. He clumsily righted himself, hair askew. 

“You know, Malfoy, you’re a lot like my cousin,” Harry said conversationally. “My muggle cousin, that is. He’s completely full of hot air and won’t do anything unless he’s got a couple of his goons with him.” Harry raised his voice so the rest of the class could hear. “Bet you won’t be so brave now that Crabbe and Goyle aren’t here to back you up.”

Malfoy paled. “Catch it if you can, then!” he shouted, throwing the glass ball high in the air away from them. 

Harry watch as it rose, almost in slow motion, then started to fall. He shifted his weight forward, and pointed the handle down. He was gathering speed, the surroundings blurring as his vision honed in on the tiny glass ball. His blood was singing, and there was a glorious feeling of weightlessness. Somewhere, far away, people were screaming, but it didn’t matter to Harry. The only thing that was important was the glass ball centimeters away from his fingers. He stretched out his fingers, skin meeting cool glass as he wrapped his hand around the ball, then rolled softly off the broom onto the grass. 

“Mr. Potter…” a cold voice drawled. 

Harry looked up into the harsh face of Professor Snape, and the soaring feeling in his stomach abruptly vanished. 

“Come with me, Potter.” 

“Professor -- ”

“Malfoy said -- ”

“It wasn’t -- ”

Professor Snape held up a hand and the class’ protests died away. “Potter…”

Harry shoved Longbottom’s glass ball towards a blond Gryffindor who’d partnered with the clumsy boy during Potions. “Here,” he said abruptly. “Make sure Longbottom gets this back.” 

Harry turned back to Professor Snape. The man was staring at him, and for a second Harry wondered what the man was looking at, but then he turned away, cloak billowing behind him as he strode towards the castle. Harry gulped, then followed him. 

Professor Snape was silent as they walked up the grounds and through the Entrance Hall, and Harry could feel himself growing more nervous by the second. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were both yellers, so he knew the moment he did something wrong. Professor Snape’s silence was one hundred times worse, as Harry had no idea what would happen to him. 

Professor Snape strode down the dungeon stairs and down the long corridor towards the Potions classroom. Harry was taking two steps for every one the professor took, and he was almost jogging to keep up. Finally, they stopped in front of a wooden door with a small plaque that read  _ Severus Snape, Potions _ . The door swung open, and Harry nervously followed into a small room with a desk, two chairs, and flasks of pickled things floating around. 

Harry shivered. It was cold in the dungeon, and Professor Snape’s office was  _ creepy _ . 

“Sit,” the professor said coldly, pointing to the hard straightback student’s chair. 

Harry perched on the edge of the seat. 

“I am very disappointed in you, Mr. Potter. I hoped you would exhibit better judgement than to engage in a foolhardy altercation with Mr. Malfoy, let alone risk your own neck to dive for a worthless trinket.” 

Harry opened his mouth to object, but Professor Snape silenced him with a glare. 

“Your father was a thoughtless risk-taker when he was your age. Your mother, on the other hand, consistently showed excellent judgement both inside and outside the classroom. It appears you take after your father in more than mere appearances… which is a shame, really. I had high hopes for you, Mr. Potter, and thus far, you have been quite disappointing.”

Harry wanted to protest. He wanted to defend his father, to defend himself, really. 

He swallowed hard. Professor Snape was his Head of House, and a powerful wizard. Harry didn’t want him thinking he was a doddering fool. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” he mumbled to his trainers.

“What was that, Mr. Potter?”

Harry raised his eyes. “I’m sorry, sir. I won’t do it again.” 

Professor Snape raised an eyebrow. “Oddly enough, I find that very difficult to believe. However, I  _ do _ believe that a month’s detention will help the message sink in… in fact, I know that the Quidditch season is about to begin, and last year’s leathers are frightfully dirty and in dire need of cleaning.” 

Harry winced. Once, when Aunt Petunia had tried to make Dudley play football, Harry had to clean his cousin’s sweaty boots and shin guards. The stink had been horrendous, and Harry could only imagine how bad an entire Quidditch team’s gear would smell. 

“Fetch Mr. Flint from the corridor,” Professor Snape continued, “and wait outside the office until you are called back in.” 

Harry stood up and beckoned the burly sixth year through the door before slipping outside to nervously wait. He didn’t know Flint well, but the Quidditch captain had a hard face and Harry dreaded the detention ideas Flint and Professor Snape would come up with. 

After what seemed like an eternity, Flint emerged from the office and jerked a thumb at Harry.  

“Follow me, Potter.”

Flint led him out of the dungeons, across the grounds, and over to the Quidditch pitch. “These are the Quidditch locker rooms,” Flint said, pointing to the long low building to the left of the pitch. “The one with the serpent belongs to Slytherin.” Flint pulled a key out of his robes’ pocket and inserted it into the door. “After you, Potter.” 

Harry entered a large open room with about a dozen large storage lockers. Doors led off the main area to what Harry presumed were the showers.  

“All the leathers are in that locker,” Flint said, pointing to one of the larger ones. “There’s cleaning supplies in the small locker by the showers. You’re to scrub the leathers -- my suggestion is to take them into the shower, boys are on the left -- and then clean up after yourself.” 

Harry heaved an internal groan. He did  _ not _ like cleaning. “What’ll you be doing?” Harry asked. Maybe, just maybe, Flint would help him. He was the Quidditch captain after all. 

“Sitting in here, planning Quidditch plays. Can’t have you cleaning without supervision.”  

Unhappily, Harry grabbed a bottle of Mrs. Skower’s Lemony Fresh All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover and a scrub brush, pulled the first set of leathers from the locker (which smelled worse than Dudley’s football boots), and headed into the showers. He uncorked the bottle, and an overpowering lemony scent filled the room. Harry applied it liberally to the scrub brush, and set away cleaning the leathers. 

Seven sets of leathers later, Harry’s arms were aching and his body reeked of lemons. He walked back into the main area where Flint was busy charming several fluffy balls. 

“I finished scrubbing.” 

Flint grunted in acknowledgement. 

Harry shuffled his feet. “So… am I all set to go then?” 

Flint flicked his wand, and the fluffy balls zoomed around the room. “One moment…” he flicked his wand again, and the balls landed in his hand. “Excellent. Potter, I need you to help me test something. You can fly, right?” 

“Yeah.” 

“There’s spare House brooms in the closet. Not nearly as good as the Nimbus or the Cleansweep Seven, but there’s a Cleansweep Five that’s in pretty good shape and a Comet Two Forty that’s not half bad either. They’re better than the school brooms. Take your pick.”

Harry, who knew very little about the merits of broomsticks, grabbed the nearest broom, which happened to be the Cleansweep. 

“Follow me, Potter.” 

Flint shouldered his broom and led the way out onto the Quidditch Pitch.  

“Alright, Potter, I’m giving you an opportunity to fly outside of those stupid flying lessons. I expect you not to breathe a single word about this to anyone, understood?”

Harry nodded. 

“I’m going to be testing out some new training tools for my team on you,” Flint explained, gesturing towards the charmed balls. “Your job will be to try to catch them.” Flint kicked off with the crate of balls under his arm. Harry quickly followed him. “I’m putting them on the slowest setting for now,” Flint said. “If my Chasers can maneuver quick enough to pass and catch these, then the Quaffle should be simple. Are you ready, Potter?”

“Yeah… I just have to catch them, right?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Okay, I’m ready then.” 

Flint brandished his wand, and a pink fluffy ball flew through the air. Harry’s eyes locked in on it, and he zoomed after it. Seconds later, he grinned triumphantly as he held the fluffy ball in his hand.

Flint barely acknowledged the achievement, and proceeded to lob even more balls into the air. Somehow, Harry managed to nab all of them. Two had nearly hit the ground, but Harry had grabbed them at the last second by rolling underneath his broom. 

“Not bad, Potter,” Flint said grudgingly. “How long have you been flying?”

“I learned this morning.”

“Bollocks!”

“I’m telling the truth!” Harry protested. “My first flying lesson was today!” 

Flint narrowed his eyes. “Then how’d you know the Sloth Grip roll? I’ll admit, your use of it was unorthodox, but it was effective.” 

“The what?” Harry asked in confusion.

“The Sloth Grip roll… the move you used when you rolled underneath your broom,” Flint said, staring at him as if he were slow.

“Oh, that. I didn’t know I was doing something specific. It just seemed like the best way to make the catch.” 

Flint carded a hand through his hair. “Potter, if I find out you aren’t being perfectly honest with me, I’ll castrate you.”

Harry blanched, and almost missed Flint’s next words. 

“…you’re the new Slytherin Seeker.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “I’m the new…Seeker?” 

“Yes, Potter. What else would you be? A Beater?” 

“Uh…no, but I thought first years weren’t allowed to play Quidditch?”

Flint shook his head. “First years aren’t allowed  _ brooms _ , Potter. There’s no rule about putting your tiny arses on the Quidditch team though. Most first years are complete rubbish, so it’s not done often.”

Harry stared at his trainers. “Oh,” he said stupidly. 

“Yeah. Now, if you breath a single word of this to anyone…” Flint trailed off menacingly. 

“I won’t!” Harry quickly promised. 

“See that you do.  Higgs will tell you when practice is.” With that, Flint stalked off the pitch, leaving a jubilant Harry behind.

Unnoticed by the boy, a darkly clothed man sat in the bleachers. 

“Well played, Mr. Flint,” he murmured. “Well played.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And there you have chapter nine! At this point in time, I’m going to stick to weekly, Sunday updates.
> 
> Also, I’d love to hear what you think! Please check out that little box where you can type things and then submit them -- it makes writers very happy.


	10. The Mysterious Case of the Third Floor Corridor

 

_ Third Floor _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 12 October 1991 _

 

Ron was thoroughly lost. He and Harry had taken several turns off the Grand Staircase while exploring the castle, and now he wasn’t sure what floor they were even on. 

“Hey, mate!” Harry called enthusiastically. “Come look at this portrait over here! It’s completely  _ hideous _ .” 

Ron ambled over. The portrait was quite possibly the ugliest thing he’d ever seen. A fat tomcat lolled in the arms of a troll-like woman wearing a bright orange dress. Ron cringed as the woman used one stubby digit to pick her nose. “Ew! Do you see what she’s doing?”

“Bletch! Let’s go this way.” 

They wandered further down the corridor, stopping briefly to admire a particularly dangerous looking battleaxe. 

“It’s very shiny,” Harry observed, stating the obvious before turning towards an abandoned classroom. “What do you reckon was taught here?” 

Ron poked his head into the dusty room. Desks lined the walls, and several strange looking skeletons stood in the corners. “Dunno. Maybe some kind of magizoology?” 

“That’d make sense. Do you think this is a dragon skeleton?” Harry asked excitedly, pointing to a large winged skeleton suspended from the ceiling.

Ron shook his head. “Nah. It’s too small, plus it’d be way too valuable. Dragon bones are worth thousands of Galleons.”

Harry looked slightly put out. “Oh. Well, next classroom?” 

The next classroom turned out to be empty except for a couple of crumbling history textbooks. 

“Hopefully this one will be better,” Harry said, hand on the door knob. He opened it, and Ron froze.

“Close the door quietly, Harry,” Ron whispered. 

“Why?” Harry whispered back. “I don’t see anything wrong.” 

Ron watched Peeves ping another piece chalk off the chalkboard. “Peeves is in there, and we don’t want him to --  _ bugger _ , run!” 

The door slammed shut as Peeves whizzed after them, chalk pieces in hand. “Ickle firsties, on the run!” he squealed. “Ickle firsties, ooh what fun!”  

Ron’s trainers smacked against the stone floor. “Hurry, Harry! This way!” 

They banked a sharp turn, narrowly dodging Peeves’ missiles. Ron was short on breath now, and Harry was breathing hard as well. 

“That door, there!” 

Harry rattled the handle. “It’s locked!” he said, panic in his eyes. “Peeves is going to get us!” 

Ron whipped out his wand. “Let me through!  _ Alohomora! _ ” The lock clicked, and they quickly piled inside. 

“That was wicked!” Harry exclaimed. “Where’d you learn that?” 

“Fred and George always locked my stuff away. Percy taught me the charm so he didn’t have to keep rescuing it for me.”

“Bril -- uh, Ron?” Harry sounded scared. “Please tell me that’s not a three headed dog in front of us.” 

Ron looked up, and his stomach dropped straight through the floor. “That’s a three headed dog… run!” he shouted for the second time that day.

They sprinted out the door, slamming it firmly shut behind them. Ron ran faster than he ever had before. He would take a million Peeveses over a giant slobbering three headed dog. At least Peeves wouldn’t eat him alive. 

They didn’t stop for breath until they were two floors away. 

“That was -- ” Harry began. 

“--terrifying,” Ron finished. 

“It was an adventure!”

“Well, yeah, but one I’d prefer  _ not _ to have. I like my head where it is, thank you very much.” 

“What even was that thing?”

“A cerberus,” Ron said with a shudder. Bill had spent several months in Greece while preparing for his Ancient Runes RAT, and he had the misfortune to encounter  _ several _ cerberi. Apparently they were popular tomb guards. 

“Like in Greek Mythology?” Harry was asking.

Ron’s brow furrowed. What was  _ mythology _ ? “Er, dunno. Bill -- my oldest brother -- says they’re mostly found in Greece, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

Harry nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Now all we have to do is figure out what it’s guarding.”

Ron’s eyes bugged. “ _ Guarding _ ?” he asked, voice strangled. 

“Yeah. Didn’t you see the trap door.” 

“No, Harry. No I didn’t. I was a little too preoccupied with its heads not biting me in half.” 

“Well, there was a trap door, and the dog -- cerberus, I mean -- was standing on it. So it’s obviously guarding something. And we should figure out what it is! It’ll be just like in  _ Auror Bartleby _ !” 

Ron did some quick mental gymnastics. “Harry,” he said slowly, trying to get his thoughts in order, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

“Why?”

“That’s the third floor corridor. The one that’s forbidden.”

* * *

 

_ Hogwarts Library _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry _

_ 13 October 1991 _

 

“What are you doing here?” asked a sharp voice.

Ron looked up from his book. “Reading. Why?”

Hermione from the train frowned. “You and Harry never come to the library.”

“So? A bloke can change,” Ron said, hoping Hermione would just leave him alone. He was close to a breakthrough on the cerberus secret -- he could just sense it. 

“I don’t believe you for a moment,” Hermione said, looking down her nose. 

_ Bugger _ .

“What are you reading anyways?” 

Ron opened his mouth to reply, but she spun his book around before he could answer. 

“ _ Cerberi: Ancient Guardians _ ?” Hermione asked, raising an eyebrow. “Why do you -”

“Ron! I found these books, and I think they’ll be really --” Harry stopped short. “Oh, hello, why are you here?” 

Hermione sniffed indignantly. “To study, of course.”

Harry slid the stack of books on the table. “You’re really smart, right?”

Ron cringed at Harry’s ‘subtle’ comment. Hermione didn’t seem to be buying it either. 

“D’you know anything about cerberi?” Harry forged on, completely oblivious. 

Hermione shot Ron a look. “Yes, I do. Why?” 

Harry fiddled with his shirt sleeve. “Er, uh, I was just wondering, you know…” 

“Just out of complete idle curiosity?”

“Yeah!” Harry said. “Complete, innocent curiosity… oh, you’re being sarcastic there, aren’t you?”

“Got it in one.”

“Oh.” There was a long pause, and Harry looked disappointed. “So … do you know anything about cerberi?” 

“Depends on why you’re curious about them.”

Harry turned to Ron. “She obviously knows something. We might as well tell her.” 

Ron looked Hermione in the eye. “If we tell you why we want to know about cerberi, will you promise to tell us what you know?” 

“Sure.” 

“You can’t tell anybody else.”

“Fine.”

Ron took a deep breath. “Okay, so here’s the deal.” He quickly explained how they had been exploring, then encountered the cerberus while attempting to escape Peeves. “Harry thinks it’s standing on a trap door,” Ron continued. 

Hermione’s eyebrow threatened to escape into her bushy hair. “So it’s guarding something then.” 

“ _ I _ think so,” Harry butted in. “Ron didn’t see the trap door.”

“Well,  _ I _ was looking at its heads, trying not to get eaten.” 

“I want in,” Hermione said suddenly.

“What?” Ron asked, feeling very confused.

“I want in,” Hermione repeated. “I’m just as curious about this cerberus as you are. What kind of madman would keep one in a school full of children? That’s just stupid. Do you guys have any idea of how savage they are? You’re lucky you didn’t get torn apart.”

“Believe me, I know,” Ron said. “My brother Bill is a curse breaker and he told me all about them.” 

They started to pool their knowledge. Harry wasn’t very helpful beyond knowing some stuff about ‘mythology,’ whatever that was, and some place called the Underworld. Ron was pretty sure those things didn’t exist, but he wasn’t about to call Harry out on it. Hermione, on the other hand, was brilliant. She almost knew more about cerberi than Ron did, and it turned out she was good to bounce ideas off of.

“So it’s definitely guarding something,” Ron confirmed.

“Yes, assuming Harry’s correct about the trap door,” Hermione said. “It’s not like the cerberus is being used for aesthetic value.”

“And it must be something valuable, because cerberi are quite rare.”

“Not to mention a class XXXX  creature,” Hermione added 

“How’d it get in?” Harry wondered. 

Ron shrugged. “Dunno. Dumbledore must have approved of it though. Can’t imagine it would have gotten in the school otherwise…” Ron’s eyes widened. “So what it’s guarding --”

“Must be Dumbledore’s or belong to someone who trusts Dumbledore!” Hermione exclaimed. 

An awed silence settled over them, only to be disrupted by Harry’s stomach rumbling.

“So, any chance we could go get breakfast?” Harry asked. 

They put the books away, then trooped over to the Great Hall. 

Hermione, Ron soon discovered, had a very annoying habit of speaking to quickly and sounding like she’d just swallowed a textbook. It was a helpful habit when he wanted to know every single fact about something, but by the time he reached the Great Hall, he felt like his ear was going to fall off. Luckily, the presence of eggs and toast quieted Hermione down. Apparently she was a firm believer in not chewing with one’s mouth full. 

Hermione finished her toast and opened her mouth to start talking again when the mail arrived. Ron bit back a sigh of relief. With any luck, Harry would get something, and he would be spared once again. 

Almost in an answer to his prayer, a scruffy barn owl fluttered down from the ceiling. Landing neatly between a pitcher of pumpkin juice and the butter dish, it dropped a letter onto Harry’s plate. The black haired boy tore it open immediately. 

“Ron? Do you know someone named Hagrid?” Harry asked. “He says he’s the Hogwarts Groundskeeper, and he… knew my parents?” 

Ron shrugged. “I’ve heard of him, yeah. He’s had to pull Fred and George out of the Forbidden Forest multiple times. Mum wasn’t too pleased. With Fred and George, that is. Not with Hagrid.” 

“He invited me for tea this afternoon,” Harry said. “Do you think I should go?”

“Of course you should go!” Hermione butted in. “He’s the Groundskeeper! He might know something about the you-know-what. In fact, I’d like to come along too, if you don’t mind.”

“Er, okay,” Harry said awkwardly. 

“Wait, I’m coming along too,” Ron said hurriedly, not wanting to be left out.

Harry grinned. “Sure, why not? Hagrid wants us to be there around three. Meet in the Entrance Hall?” 

They agreed, and several hours later found the young Slytherins strolling across the breezy Hogwarts grounds. 

“We need a plan of action,” Hermione said suddenly.

Harry frowned. “We’re going for  _ tea _ .”

Hermione shook her head. “Yes, but this is the perfect opportunity to gain information!” 

“You invited yourself along!” Ron exclaimed. 

“Because I was curious!” Hermione shot back. “I’m now  _ personally invested _ in this.” 

“ _ Personally invested _ ?” 

“Yes,” Hermione said huffily. “I spent at least twenty minutes in the library telling you all about cerberi. Twenty minutes I could have used to finish the transfiguration homework. And I’m curious. Very curious.” 

Ron opened his mouth to object. They had told everything, sure, but he hadn’t thought she’d entirely take over their adventure.

“We’re here!” Harry chimed in, “at least I’m assuming that’s Hagrid’s hut,” he finished, pointing to a large stone cabin. The proportions seemed slightly off, and it took Ron a moment to realize it was because Hagrid was so much taller than them. 

“So you reckon we just knock?” Harry asked. 

Ron shrugged. He didn’t visit other people’s houses very often. He and Harry looked at each other for a second before Hermione butted in. 

“Of course we knock! What else would we do, sit around here like lumps?” 

“Uhh…”

Hermione marched up the flight of steps. “Well, are you coming?” 

Sheepishly, Ron followed with Harry close behind him. 

Hermione fisted her hand, and knocked. 

“Comin’!” bellowed a voice from inside. Loud barking ensued. “Back, Fang -- back!” A bushy bearded face appeared in the crack of the door. “Jus’ a mo’.  _ Back _ , Fang.” 

The door creaked open, and Hagrid beckoned them inside while restraining a big slobbery boarhound. 

“Ah, Harry,” Hagrid said. “Yeh look jus’ like yer da.” 

Harry stood up straighter. “I do?”

“Of course. . Hasn’t anyone tol’ yeh that?” 

Harry shook his head. “No. No, they haven’t. Er, anyways, these are my, er, friends, Ron and Hermione.” 

Hagrid peered down at Ron. “Another Weasley, eh? I spent half me life chasin’ yer twin brothers away from the forest.” 

Ron resisted the urge to groan. “Er, yeah. Er, I’m not like them.”

Hagrid brightened. “Thank the gods. I don’ think I could stomach another pair o’ those.” He poured hot water into mugs the size of soup bowls. “Make yerselves at home.” 

They sat on the lumpy chairs, and Hagrid released Fang to distribute the tea and rock cakes. Fang immediately bounded towards Ron, and started drooling over his robes. Luckily, they were one of the hand-me-down sets and not the new ones. 

“Mr. Hagrid,” Hermione began. “I heard that you know a lot about magical creatures and assist Professor Kettleburn in his classes!” 

Hagrid blushed. “It’s jus’ Hagrid. No need for titles or nothin’.” 

“I have a couple questions about magical creatures,” Hermione continued. “I’m muggleborn, you see, and all this is very new and interesting, and I was wondering if you could help me separate fact from fiction.” 

“Certainly. What’re yer questions?”

“Is it true unicorns exist?” Hermione asked brightly. 

“O’ course they do! Hogwarts has got its own unicorn herd. You see that shiny stuff up there?” Hagrid asked, pointing towards the rafters, “that’s unicorn tail hair. It gets caught in the brush in the forest, an’ I collect it when the moon’s bright. Makes it easy to spot, yeh see.” 

“Wow, Hagrid, that’s really interesting. What about dragons?”

“They’re real too. Crikey, I’d like a dragon someday…” 

Hermione paused for a second, and Ron could see her readying the proverbial knife. “That’s neat. What about cerberi?” 

Hagrid froze for a heartbeat.

“Oh…” said Hermione. “Those aren’t taboo or something in the wizarding world, are they?”

“No, no, of course not! They’re jus’ as nice as any other creature. Jus’ misunderstood, that’s all. I ‘ave one, too, Fluffy’s his name.” 

Hagrid continued to ramble on about how nice his pet cerberus was, but it was clear Hermione was no longer paying attention. Suddenly, she snatched something off the table. 

“So sorry to cut you off, Hagrid, but I just remembered I have transfiguration homework I have to do!” Hermione said quickly, words tumbling over each other. 

“Eh?” Hagrid asked, midway through explaining the special toothbrush he’d purchased for Fluffy. “Oh, that’s nice.” 

Ron shot Harry a look. 

“Er, Hagrid, I think we need to go too,” Ron said, feeling terribly obvious. “Homework and all. Very important, you know.” 

“Alrigh’ run along. I’ll see you sometime again, Harry?”

“Er, sure.” 

They hurried out of Hagrid’s cabin and across the grounds. 

“What was that for?” Ron demanded. He’d been enjoying his tea, and it turned out the rock cakes were somewhat edible if you soaked them in the scalding beverage first. 

Hermione beckoned them over to a cluster of rocks and pulled a crumpled piece of parchment out of her robes pocket. “Look,” she said, smoothing it out. 

 

_ GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST _

_ by Charity Goodwinter _

 

_ Investigations continue into the break-in at Gringotts on 31 July, widely believed to be the work of Dark wizards or witches unknown.  _

_ Gringotts goblins today insisted that nothing had been taken. The vault was searched had in fact been emptied the same day. _

_ “But we’re not telling you what was in there, so keep your noses out if you know what’s good for you,” said a Gringotts spokesgoblin this afternoon.  _

 

Harry looked confused. “This happened on my birthday,” he remarked, “But what’s so special about it?”

Hermione tapped the parchment thoughtfully, and the pieces suddenly came together for Ron. 

“You think this is what the cerberus is guarding?” he asked.

Hermione nodded. 

 


	11. Chapter 11

_ Slytherin Common Room _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 31 October 1991 _

 

Hermione was officially frustrated. She’d read endless books and prodded professors for as much information as she dared. Professor Quirrel had told her a very interesting story about a vampire he fought in Somalia, and although he’d given her good information on vampires, she was no closer to discovering what the cerberus was guarding and who owned it. 

Hermione tossed aside  _ Getting Along with Gringotts: A Complete Compendium _ . The book had been almost completely useless. Sure, she’d learned that Gringotts had some of the best wizarding security in magical Britain, but without knowing where the vault was located, she had no idea who it could belong to or what protections the thief would have bypassed. What Hermione did know was that the deeper into Gringotts a vault was, the more protections it had. Furthermore, nearly only the Upper Houses had the wealth and power for such a vault. The book didn’t go as far to say who the Upper Houses were, however, which left Hermione feeling quite annoyed. She now had not just one, but two unsolved mysteries on her hands. 

Ever since arriving at Hogwarts, she’d been trying to figure out what sort of ritual the Irish witches used. So far, she’d found nothing.  _ Magycks of the Arkaine  _ has been nearly incomprehensible while  _ Witchcraft and Rituals  _ had been full of information on how to make an infant smarter. Hermione sighed. She wanted to give up, but she couldn’t help feeling that she was missing something very important. 

Hermione picked up the next book,  _ Plippy’s Pop-Up Guide to the Ése.  _ It was a book for little kids, and Hermione wasn’t even sure why the library had it. Frowning slightly, Hermione opened the book. 

A small figure of a cloaked bearded man holding a long staff popped up from the pages. Glittering text scrolled beneath him. 

_ Woden is the Leader of the Wild Hunt and a Healer. He protects each and every one of his children.  _

Hermione turned to the next page. 

A broad shouldered man astride a six legged horse emerged from the pages. 

_ Tiw, the Creator. Father to us all. _

Hermione idly flipped through the rest of the pages. There were pop up figures and descriptions of the other six gods, which she skimmed, but didn’t bother reading in-depth. The next section looked more promising. Hermione skipped past the information on Yule, Imbolc, and Ostara, and stopped when she got to Beltane. 

_ On Beltane, we light bonfires to protect us from the influence of the Dark. We light these fires without magic on hilltops. In Ireland, Beltane marks the first day of summer. _

Hermione turned the page, but there wasn’t any more information on Beltane. The book went on to detail the celebrations of Litha, Lughnasadh, Mabon, and Samhain. 

Hermione stared at the page. 

_ Typically celebrated around 31 October, Samhain is when the Veil between the living and the dead is the thinnest. We take this day to remember our loved ones who have passed into the Beyond.  _

Hermione frowned. Given that Samhain seemed to be rather important in wizarding culture, she was surprised they hadn’t been given class off for the day. Shrugging, Hermione put the book back in the pile. Ron’s family was all wizards; maybe he could tell her more about the wizarding holidays. 

Stretching, Hermione stood and hefted the pile of books onto her hip. She felt she was definitely onto something with wizarding holidays, and the library was certain to have the book she needed. 

Hermione climbed out of the dungeons and wandered through the Entrance Hall where Professor Flitwick was levitating several enormous pumpkins into the Great Hall. She poked her head in briefly -- thousands of tiny candles were already floating above the tables -- before walking up a flight of stairs to the library. 

Madam Pince peered at her from behind her desk. “Back again, Miss Granger?” 

Hermione plopped her books in the return bin. “Yes, Madam Pince.”

The librarian cast her a suspicious look. “You do know the Halloween Feast starts in less than an hour?”

“Yes, Madam Pince. There’s something I read about in  _ Plippy’s Pop-Up Guide to the Ése _ that I need more information on. The other books I got were really hard to understand, and, I was wondering if you knew any good books on wizarding holidays and their significance to rituals.”

“Ritual magic?”

“Er, yeah? That isn’t bad, is it?” Hermione asked hurriedly. “I’m new to the wizarding world, you see…” 

Madam Pince frowned. “Ritual magic is not bad, per se. It simply is antiquated. Not many witches or wizards want to learn about it nowadays. Rather unfortunate, in my opinion.”

“Why?”

Madam Pince cast her a strange look that Hermione couldn’t quite decipher.  “Ritual magic is old, far older than anything cast with a wand. In fact, in times of old, wizards and muggles use to band together to perform harvest rituals to help crops grow.” She paused, and Hermione waited for her to continue. This was just the information she needed! “But I talk too much,” Madam Pince said, dashing Hermione’s hopes of easy information. “The books you want are in section E.”  

Hermione set off, skimming the shelves for viable books.  _ Ritual Magick _ by Titus Lestrange looked like it might be useful as well as  _ The High Holidays _ by Celeste Moon. Hermione meandered along the shelf, looking for more likely candidates. She picked up  _ Rise of the Modern Wizard _ by Julius Gamp for bedtime reading and  _ The Manners of Polite Society  _ by Lucretia Nott so she could figure out why Draco always acted like he had a stick up his arse. Hermione eyed a particularly large book. It was slightly dusty, and looked like no one had touched it in a while. Hermione set her other books on the floor and pulled the tome off the shelf. 

_ The Olde Ways _ scrolled across the leather cover in faded gold text, and underneath it was a small byline declaring Phineas Black to be the author. Hermione balanced the book experimentally in one hand. It was quite heavy, but it looked like it might have useful information. Hermione picked up the books with a slight grunt, happy that she had enough reading material for the next week and a half.

* * *

 

_ Great Hall _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 31 October 1991 _

 

The Great Hall was splendid, and Hermione couldn’t get enough of it. Seven massive pumpkins with purple flames lined the outside of the hall while thousands of bats fluttered around the ceiling, making the candles flicker. Hermione hoped the bats were conjured. Real bats carried too many diseases to have in large numbers. Or at all. 

Hermione watched the bats for a moment longer, then turned her eyes back towards the table.  Ron was fiddling with his silverware while Harry was looking at the High Table in confusion. 

“Where do you reckon Quirrell is?” Harry asked.

Hermione looked towards the High Table. Sure enough, Quirrell’s usual seat next to Professor Snape was empty. “I don’t …” 

“Hey look, food!” Ron interrupted. 

Hermione promptly abandoned the Quirrell issue -- perhaps he was off celebrating Samhain with family -- and began helping herself to mashed potatoes. She was just about to serve herself peas when the doors to the hall banged open. 

Professor Quirrell sprinted in, turban askew and wand drawn. He skittered to a halt in front of the High Table. 

“Troll,” he gasped, “In the dungeons.” His hands fell to his knees, and he looked like he was about to collapse.  His right sleeve was torn, and his arm was bleeding. “I tried to -- reason with it -- but, it was not in a negotiating mood. I managed to stop it up for a moment -- it’s in the dungeons.” 

A first year Hufflepuff burst into tears while Professors Dumbledore, Snape, and Quirrell whispered furiously at the High Table. 

“Professors Sprout, Quirrell, Vector, Burbage, and Babbling will remain in the Great Hall with the students,” Headmaster Dumbledore rumbled. “Professors McGonagall, Snape, Sinistra, Flitwick, Kettleburn will join me in search of the troll.” 

They filed out of the hall, and Hermione looked at the remaining professors skeptically. Besides Professor Quirrell, and maybe Professor Vector, none of them looked like they could fight off a troll. Professor Burbage looked a younger version of Professor Sprout while Professor Babbling was simply ancient. 

“Please, retake your seats,” Professor Quirrell said. “Everything will be -- ”

SLAM.

The hall erupted into chaos as students screamed and benches fell over. Everyone was pushing each other in a vain effort to get away from the doors. 

Hermione swallowed hard, and took her wand out of her pocket. By virtue of being a first year, she was seated close to the High Table and away from the doors, but…

CRUNCH.

Hermione’s heart thumped rapidly in her chest.

BANG.

The doors bowed, and several students started crying. 

Several purple firecrackers exploded overhead. Hermione wrenched her eyes away from the door and towards Professor Quirrell who was standing with his wand aloof. 

“Prefects,” he shouted, “escort the first, second, and third years to the professor’s antechamber. Fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh years, please stand by the back of the hall.” 

There was a mad scramble for the antechamber door. The prefects tried to corral the students into a semblance of order, but failed miserably. Everyone was pushing frantically to get through the small entryway. Hermione was shoved from behind and stumbled to her knees. She tried to stand up, only to be pushed out of the way again. 

“Professors, to me,” Hermione heard Professor Quirrell shout over the din. There were several clunking sounds as the house tables flew into the air to make a barricade. “Professors will be the first wave of attackers. Students, you are the second wave.” 

“Students, be prepared to cast the full body-bind curse,” Professor Quirrell yelled. “Seventh years who are proficient in the stunning charm,  prepare to cast that. Trolls are highly magically resistant, so we need everyone to cast at the same time. On the count of three, the doors will open. When I shout, everyone will cast.” 

Hermione managed to push herself to standing. Some of the younger students had made it through the door, but most of them were crowded around the entrance. Shaking slightly, Hermione pointed her wand towards the door. 

“One.”

Hermione’s knees quaked.

“Two.”

She was going to be sick.

“Three.” 

The doors swung open. Hermione’s eyes began to water as the scent of an uncleaned public toilet and moldy gym socks filled the air. A large gray  _ thing _ clunked into the hall.

“Wands at the ready!” Professor Quirrell yelled. “Cast!”

“ _ PETRIFICUS TOTALUS!” _

“ _ STUPEFY!”  _

Hundreds of bolts of red light sped towards the troll. It stumbled slightly. 

“Again! Ready, and cast!”

“ _ PETRIFICUS TOTALUS!” _

_ “STUPEFY!” _

The troll wobbled, then fell to the ground with a sickening crunch. 

Hermione resisted the urge to vomit. Now that the danger had passed, she was feeling quite ill. Knees about to give out, she sat down rather suddenly. 

“Alright there, Granger?” 

A reedy blond boy looked down at her, and Hermione smiled weakly. “I’m fine, Rosier.” 

“You don’t look fine.” 

“The smell of the troll … didn’t really mix well with dinner,” Hermione said, trying for blasé. 

Rosier chuckled. “Not much fazes you, eh?” 

“Not really.” 

Rosier wandered off, and Hermione hugged her knees. The troll had been scary, sure, but now that the shock had worn off, it really hadn’t been too bad. Nothing could really hold a candle to Ireland, after all. 

Sometime later, founded Hermione, Ron, and Harry sitting in a corner of the Slytherin common room to finish the feast. 

“I’ve never liked Samhain,” Ron was saying through a mouthful of carrots. “Bad things always happen, you know. We’re suppose to remember the dead, but Mum never wanted to. My uncles -- her brothers -- died during the war, and --” he swallowed hard, “Da passed a couple years ago, so I guess it’s just too sad.” 

Hermione’s heart broke a little. “Ron, I’m so sorry. I never knew your dad died.” 

Ron shrugged. “Yeah. I can’t remember him too well. The memories have been fading as I get older.  I was seven when he died, but I still miss him loads.” 

“At least you have some memories,” said Harry. “I don’t remember my parents at all. They died today, you know. On Halloween.” 

Ron murmured some sort of condolence while Hermione’s head spun.

Samhain. 

The Veil. 

“Ron? What sort of bad things happen on Samhain?” Hermione asked. 

“My great-uncle Bilius saw a Grim on Samhain,” Ron replied. “He died the next day.” 

“What’s a Grim?” Harry queried.

“It’s a death omen. Looks like a big, black dog. If you see one, you die within the next day.” 

Hermione’s head whirled again.

Samhain.

The Veil.

Death. 

“Harry,” she said slowly. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence your parents died on Samhain.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for all your feedback last chapter! A chapter or so ago, I got a suggestion that I update my summary as it doesn’t quite match my story. After thinking about it, I find I agree, but am not sure what to put. So, I’m going to open it up to you guys -- what do you think a good summary for this story would be?


	12. Politiking

# 

_ Department of Magical Law Enforcement _

_ Ministry of Magic, London _

_ 4 November 1991 _

 

Five more invoices stacked themselves on Amelia Bones’ desk as she tried to rub out an impending headache. 

A troll.

How did Albus Dumbledore allowed a troll to get into Hogwarts? The castle was supposed to have numerous enchantments in place to stop dangerous creatures from entering the building, yet the incident report indicated that the beast had waltzed on in. Dumbledore was an outstanding wizard -- he was a Grand Sorcerer of both Alchemy and Transfiguration, for Merlin’s sake. The Dumbledore of her Hogwarts days had been a benevolent grandfatherly figure and a powerful mage. She had met him briefly at her brother’s funeral a decade ago, and he hadn’t seemed to have changed one bit.

Amelia sighed, gently massaging her temples. It was difficult enough to deal with the troll situation as the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but it was even worse as a parent. Susan had been in the  _ same room _ as the troll. Susan, her niece, the last of House Bones. The only thing she had left of Adam and Katherine…

Amelia shook her head to clear it, forcefully turning her mind back to the incident report. Somehow, only the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor had been injured, and it had been a minor injury at that. 

_ Lucky, that’s what they were, _ Amelia thought.  _ There were so many ways it could have gone terribly wrong… _

A knock sounded at her door, and Amelia groaned. The last thing she needed was yet another interruption, and if it was another one of Scrimgeour's trainees complaining he was too much of a hard arse, she was going to lose her bloody mind.

“Come in!” Amelia said, false cheer infusing her voice. 

“Regent Bones.” 

Relief filled her. “Lord Moon,” Amelia greeted.

“Is now a bad time?” the blonde aristocrat asked. 

“It’s… it’s a time, August,” Amelia finished lamely. “I’m inundated with paperwork, I’m behind on Wizengamot affairs.” She shrugged.“The usual.” 

August propped himself on the doorframe. “Anything interesting?” 

“The Samhain troll affair at Hogwarts. The  _ Prophet _ is going to have a field day once the story gets out.” 

“That cannot be a fun issue to resolve.” 

“It’s really not. I have an absurd amount of forms to fill out, parental complaints to answer, and an owl to send to the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Apparently Quirrell -- this year’s Defense Against the Dark Arts professor -- is insisting the troll shouldn’t be euthanized even though the damn thing nearly ripped his arm off. I’d say he’s a cracked idiot if Susan didn’t say he was a decent professor. Has a bit of a stutter, but he teaches well. Susan says she’s learning loads, so I’m happy enough. 

“At any rate, I’m sure you didn’t come here to hear me whine about my job and talk about Susan. What’s going on?” 

“Lord Gaunt.” 

Amelia groaned. “Another bill?” 

“Naturally.” 

“What did he and his sycophants write this time?”

August shrugged gracefully. “It’s actually not so bad, at least where House Moon is concerned. Lord Gaunt wishes to add religious education classes to Hogwarts’ course offerings as well as give students days off on High Holidays. He also wants to remove all of the Headmaster’s muggle-friendly holiday terminology from the school. For Merlin’s sake, my daughter sent me an owl asking why they were celebrating Halloween.  _ Halloween _ , for the gods’ sake! Absolutely zero regard for the children’s heritage, in my opinion.”  

Amelia frowned. “The double terminology isn’t so bad. It certainly helps the muggleborn and muggle-raised children feel more at home and ease them into the Wizarding world.”

“Yes, but at what cost?” August argued. “Should we risk losing our heritage in order to make some children feel more comfortable?” 

“Well -- ”

“There you have it.”  

“The bill is certainly a lot tamer than Lord Gaunt’s usual fare,” Amelia allowed.  “Who’s sponsoring it?” 

“In addition to Gaunt, Lords Malfoy, Nott, and Yaxley.” 

“So, in other words, the usual suspects.” 

“Yes.” 

“What about signatories?” 

“Lords Avery,  Burke, Carrow, Fawley, Parkinson and Selwyn.” 

Amelia frowned. “Lord Rowle?”

“Too much of an idiot to make a decision.”

“And Lord Urquhart?” 

“Waffling. I think he’ll vote for it.  _ I _ might vote for it. All in all, it’s not a bad bill.” 

“Really? You’d support Lord  _ Gaunt _ of all people?” 

“I’m not opposed to this particular bill. It’s not as if I’m suddenly throwing my lot in with him.” 

Amelia drummed her fingers. “I don’t think I’ll vote for it.”

“I didn’t say you had to.” 

“I know. I just could never support someone like Lord Gaunt, no matter what he proposed.”

August nodded. “Understandable. Now, Lord Selwyn and I are working on a new bill on muggleborns to run against the one Lord Nott proposed last session. Do you want in?” 

“Depends on how hard-line your stance is. You know where I stand on the muggleborn issue.” 

August chuckled lightly.  “Amelia, do I look like the sort of wizard who would rip muggleborns from their homes? No. What Samuel and I am proposing is similar to systems already in place on the Continent to aid not only muggleborns, but halfbloods and purebloods as well. We’re proposing the creation of wizarding primary schools -- commuter, of course -- to help integrate students better from a young age, starting, say, around seven or eight. It will help muggle-raised students assimilate better to wizarding culture. Russia has already implemented this, and they are close to surpassing us in OWL and NEWT scores!” 

“That actually sounds fairly reasonable,” Amelia said, feeling surprised. The Traditionalists usually took a far harsher stance towards muggleborns. Perhaps they were turning over a new leaf.  “What sort of classes would be taught? It’s not as if the children can get their wands early…” 

“Samuel and I were just discussing that. It turns out there is plenty of material. History of Magic, for one,” he said, ticking it off on his fingers, “with at least two years of Hogwarts-level History of Magic under their belts by the time they start school, students can take the OWL in third year, opening their fourth and fifth year schedule up for more electives. Then there’s also Herbology, which can be taught at any age; Pre-Potions, which is being piloted in France right now; Wizarding Culture, for muggleborn and halfblood students; Astronomy; Maths; and Runic Scripts, which essentially is a low-level, introductory course on runic magic.”  

“I might be interested,” Amelia said slowly. “I’d like to see course syllabi and your funding scheme.” 

“Excellent. Should I send you an owl with a draft?”

“Certainly. I’ll let you know if I have any amendments.” 

“Thank you. Good day, Amelia.” 

“Good day.” 

Amelia glanced at her mountain of paperwork then rested her head in her hands, headache surging into full force.  _ By Merlin, why does everything have to be so terribly tedious? _

* * *

 

_ Offices of the Daily Prophet _

_ Diagon Alley, London _

_ 6 November 1991 _

 

Cursing loudly, Rita tossed aside another piece of useless drivel. It was exactly the thing she didn’t need, especially since her search for information on Thomas Gaunt had taken a sharp turn for the worse. The man was slipperier than Lucius Malfoy at his best, and Rita was well and truly stumped. She’d been so eager to pursue the family tree lead, but she only found another dead end. 

Over the past one hundred years, the Gaunt family tree had narrowed down to one sickly branch. In 1880, Brutus Gaunt married his first cousin Ioni. Their first child, Maia, had died at age two. They had two other children, though, Lolita, born in 1885, and Marvolo, born in 1886. Marvolo then married his own sister to keep the line “pure,” and went on to have three children: Marcella, Morfin, and Merope. Of those three, Marcella died as an infant, and Merope was a squib. Morfin never married, and died in Azkaban after murdering a family of muggles. 

This left Rita with a conundrum. Only Morfin or Merope could have carried on the Gaunt line unless there was another secret child Rita didn’t know about. Morfin had no children to Rita’s knowledge (although bastards weren’t out of the picture) and Merope had a kid with some muggle, a boy named Tom Riddle. Riddle had been an outstanding student at Hogwarts, but he ended up working at Borgin and Burkes following graduation. Several years later, he disappeared, and was presumed dead. It was possible Tom was Thomas, but highly unlikely. If Tom Riddle was still alive, he would be approaching his seventies, while Thomas Gaunt appeared to be scarcely forty…perhaps Tom Riddle had a child... 

“Uh, Ms. Skeeter?”

Rita jumped, then quickly composed herself. “What do you want?” she snapped. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

The latest intern -- Bibble, or something -- shuffled his feet nervously. “Uh, the Editor-in-Chief wanted you to review the latest set of articles…” 

Rita sighed. “Put them on my desk. No! Don’t walk over here, you bumbling idiot! I’m working with classified information. Levitate them! And get me coffee once you’ve done it!” 

Bibble -- or was it Bumple? -- beat a hasty exit, and Rita leaned back in her chair. 

_ Why am I surrounded by idiots? _

The universe did not answer (not that Rita was expecting it to), and she pulled out her Acidic Orange Korrecting Kwill.  _ Thank Merlin for small pleasures _ . 

Rita immersed herself in slashing idiotic subtitles and correcting comma splices. Her colleagues were fools, for certain, but at least her job granted her a generous paycheck and the ability to snag the most newsworthy articles for herself. 

Rita skimmed through the titles. Most of it was boring rubbish she could barely lower herself to edit, let alone read. Honestly, who cared about cauldron bottom thickness? On the other hand…Rita rubbed her hands together in anticipation. 

 

_ TROLL AT HOGWARTS _

_ by Cassidy Higgins _

 

Rita grinned. This was exactly what she was looking for. 

 

_ On Samhain, nothing other than a mountain troll found its way into Hogwarts, according to a recently released report from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Luckily, no one was seriously injured during the incident, and a detachment from the Auror corps is currently working with the Headmaster to determine how a troll managed to breach the school’s defenses.  _

 

Rita pursed her lips. Cassidy was a nice witch, sure, but she had no idea how to write a good news story. It was quite fine by Rita, though. After a quick re-write and a bit of blackmail, Rita was front-page news. 

 

_ TROLLS AND TERROR AT HOGWARTS: HAS DUMBLEDORE LOST HIS TOUCH? _

_ by Rita Skeeter _

_ On Samhain night, none other than a mountain troll found its way into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent. Yes, dear readers, you read that correctly. According to an official report released only yesterday by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, the class XXXX creature was found roaming the halls of Hogwarts before attempting to break into the Great Hall. Defense Against the Dark Arts professor Quirinus Quirrell saved the day with his quick thinking, saving numerous students from the beast. Quirrell was the only individual to suffer an injury.  _

_ While we must applaud Quirrell for his feat, the incident brings up an incredibly important question: how did a mountain troll manage to breach Hogwarts’ defenses? Did Albus Dumbledore let the troll in on purpose, or was it an unintentional accident? Dumbledore himself was not on scene when the troll attacked students in the Great Hall. In fact, he was leading a squad of professors to battle the creature. Did he intentionally leave the students unarmed? What is Dumbledore’s plan?  _

_ At this very moment, Aurors have been dispatched to Hogwarts to investigate the situation. We can only hope this was an innocent mistake and not the start of something far more sinister… _

Rita gave her work a onceover. It was perfection, and worthy of the front page if she dared to say so herself. Setting it into the complete pile, Rita moved on to the next piece. 

 

_ LORDS GAUNT AND MALFOY INTRODUCE CONTROVERSIAL NEW BILL _

_ by Kikis Trecus _

 

_ Lord Thomas Gaunt, along with Lord Lucius Malfoy, who recently took over the Malfoy lordship from his father Abraxas, has introduced yet another controversial bill. The Religion and Culture Affirmation Act (RaCAA) is aimed at preserving our unique wizarding culture.  _

_ “With the influx of muggle-raised individuals, more and more wizards are finding it difficult to stay true to their culture,” Lord Gaunt told the  _ Daily Prophet _. “In particular, students at Hogwarts struggle to maintain their traditions. Last Samhain, for example, students had mandatory classes in addition to a Halloween feast, leaving little time for students and their families to celebrate. Clearly, this situation is a direct threat to our culture and traditions. I hope that [RaCAA] will help mitigate the issue, resulting in the best world for our children.”  _

_ Lord Thaddeus Nott and Lord Austin Yaxley are co-sponsoring the bill with Lords Gaunt and Malfoy.  _

_ The bill currently is drawing support across the House of Lords with Blood Purists, Conservative Traditionalists, and some Moderate Traditionalists signing on as signatories. The Modernist party continues to oppose the bill, advocating instead for a blend of cultures.  _

_ In fact, in the House of Commons, halfblood Timothy Malone (Modernist, Londonderry) has introduced a rival bill which actively encourages the mix of cultures. Chief Warlock Albus Dumbledore has publicly backed Representative Malone, marking one of his few political stands. _

_ BILL continued on page 9.  _

_ To read more on the Chief Warlock’s past political moves, turn to WARLOCK on page 10. _

 

Rita cracked her knuckles. So Gaunt liked controversy, eh? Controversy was an old friend. It was something she could work with. 

Rita stretched her back. Dumbledore was a real treat as well. Rita was convinced the old man was out for his own skin, and his own skin alone. Seizing her DictaQuill, Rita smiled. 

It was time to make some  _ news _ . 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: An especially large thanks goes out to my betas for this chapter -- it was very difficult to write! I hope you all enjoyed it.


	13. Slytherin Versus Gryffindor

_Great Hall_

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland_

_23 November 1991_

 

 

A meaty hand clapped down on Harry’s shoulder.

“Ready, Potter?”

Harry hastily swallowed a mouthful of eggs and pasted on a grin. “Yeah. Super ready,” he lied.

Flint nodded brusquely. “Good. Remember, the meeting is at 10:30.”

He strode away, and Harry resumed eating his eggs and bacon. Truth be told, he wasn’t ready at all. Harry’s presence as a full member of the Slytherin Quidditch team was one of the best kept secrets in Hogwarts. Terence Higgs, last year’s Seeker, was still practicing as the first string Seeker when in actuality he would be playing Chaser. Harry was to be the secret weapon, the ace in the corner for the Slytherin team.

They’d really pulled out all the stops for him, too. Once Flint had seen how well Harry could fly, he bullied Professor Snape into getting Harry a broom. Harry snickered to himself. The mental image of Flint walloping Professor Snape over the head with a ratty old Cleansweep Three until he bought Harry a new broom was particularly absurd. And it wasn’t just any broom -- Harry had a top of the line, completely brand-new _Nimbus Two Thousand_. It was one of the best brooms on the market, accelerating to seventy miles per hour in just ten seconds. Its steering was way better than the old Cleansweep Five he’d previously been using; the Nimbus turned with only a slight nudge.

Grabbing a piece of toast, Harry stood up from the table.

“Where’re you going?” Ron asked through a mouthful of pancakes.

“Meeting. You know…”

Ron swallowed. “Oh, right! Good luck, mate!”

“Thanks.”  

Harry hurried out of the Great Hall, through the Entrance Hall, and across the grounds. A slight breeze ruffled his hair, and the sun beat down on his back. It was great weather for Quidditch, and would be even better if Harry wasn’t so nervous.

With a murmured word, the door to the Slytherin locker room swung open. Harry quickly headed to his locker and changed into his emerald Quidditch robes.

“Alright team, circle up,” Flint shouted. “It’s time for us to go out there and kick some serious arse. We’ve won the Quidditch Cup for the past seven years. We’ve got Bletchley on as Keeper again.”

There was a pause, and the air filled with woops.

“Myself, Pucey, and Higgs as Chasers; Warrington and Montague as Beaters, and our new addition, Potter, as Seeker.”

Pucey whistled.

“Stay focused, men. Our team is better than Gryffindor’s, but we need to keep our heads in the game if we want to beat them. They’ve got all girls as Chasers -- Johnson, Spinnet and Bell -- so we’re going to make sure to keep the game physical. Push them off the Quaffle a couple times and they’ll be intimidated. The Weasley terrors are their Beaters again. Warrington and Montague, you’ll have your hands full.

“Wood is their Keeper. Chasers, we all know him. He’s pretty decent, but he can’t be in three places at once. Also, their reserve Keeper is rubbish, so try to send a Bludger at Wood early on. McLaggen is the new Gryffindor Seeker. I watched one of their practices, and he seems average. Potter, you’re going to need to fly at your best to beat him.”

Harry nodded.

“Hands in. Up Slytherin on three. One. Two. Three.”

“UP SLYTHERIN!” they roared, streaming out of the locker room in a horde of green.

“And facing Gryffindor today,” a boy announced, voice sounding loudly throughout the stadium, “is Slytherin, captained by Marcus Flint.”

Cheers erupted from the Slytherin section of the stands while the Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw sections booed.

Harry wrinkled his nose. In his opinion, the blatant animosity the other houses had for Slytherin was really stupid. Why was it so important to them?

Shaking his head to clear it, Harry caught the end of Madam Hooch’s speech.

“…now, captains, shake hands.”

Flint stepped forward, as did Wood, the Gryffindor captain whose face looked a bit like a potato with ears. After both captains made a fair attempt at breaking each other’s fingers, they separated.

“Players, to your positions,” barked Madam Hooch.

Harry nervously took his place on the circle. Butterflies swarmed in his stomach. This was it. The moment.

“On my whistle. Three. Two. One.”

TWEET.

Harry kicked off the hard packed earth, shooting skyward like a bullet. He’d already talked strategy with Flint, and as it turned out, Harry had a knack for spotting the Snitch even from a goodly distance away. This made his gameplan easy, since all Harry had to do was fly in a search pattern over the pitch, being sure to stay out of the way of the main game below.

“And they’re off!” the announcer yelled excitedly. “Johnson takes the Quaffle right away -- you show those Slytherins, Angelina! -- she passes it to Bell and -- oh, no, it’s been intercepted by Flint! Flint’s heading toward the Gryffindor goal, dodges a Bludger by Weasley -- nice try, Fred! Or George! -- hands off to Pucey, Flint streaking towards the goal, passing to Higgs, who almost fumbles. Flint’s got the Quaffle again. He shoots! Wood goes for the block, aaand, Slytherin scores,” the announcer said sadly.

Harry pumped his fist. Go Slytherin! Turning his broom to the left, Harry made a slow figure eight around the field, scanning for the Snitch. There was a gold flash he almost dove for before he realized it was one of the Gryffindors’ watches. Mentally congratulating himself, Harry began a zigzag course across the pitch. There was still no sign of the Snitch.

He shot a quick glance towards the scoreboard. Slytherin was in the lead, fifty points to thirty --

Was that the Snitch?

Harry slowly flew closer.

It was definitely the Snitch, fluttering around Pucey’s ear. Pucey was oblivious as he dove away to snatch the Quaffle from Higgs. Harry scanned the pitch. The Gryffindor Seeker, McLaggen, was busy arguing with one of the Chasers -- Bell, maybe. He _clearly_ hadn’t seen the Snitch.

Harry locked his eyes on the small gold ball and flew steadily closer.

“Cormac appears to be fighting with one of his teammates!” the announcer observed. “Just let Katie play the game!”

Praying that everyone would be distract by the Gryffindors, Harry plunged into a dive. He was ten meters away.

Seven meters away.

“Hey, Potter’s seen something!” one of the Weasley twins shouted.

A crack filled the air, and Harry narrowly dodged a Bludger with a Sloth Grip Roll. For a heart-stopping moment, he couldn’t see the Snitch, but then he found it by the Gryffindor goal post.

A second Bludger powered towards him, and Harry ducked, wind from it ruffling his hair. Heart in his mouth, Harry dove, flattening himself against his broom. Air stung his eyes as he plunged earthward, hand outstretched, reaching, searching. The announcer was yelling something about the Snitch, but Harry tuned him out.

He had one goal.

One job.

Harry’s hand closed around cold metal.

“POTTER’S DONE IT!” the announcer roared, sounding thoroughly shocked. “The first year has somehow managed to catch the Snitch. Slytherin wins, 200 - 30.”

A loud cry emerged from the Slytherin section of the stands as a mob of green and silver poured out onto the field. Harry’s heart soared. He had done it -- he, Harry, had helped win the match for his house.

A hand clapped down on his shoulder. “Good job today, Potter.”

“Really?”

Flint nodded. “We have a lot to work on -- you would have been flattened against an aggressive Seeker -- but you played well today. Go celebrate.”

Harry beamed. He wanted to savour this moment forever.

* * *

 

_Groundskeeper’s Cabin_

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_23 November 1991_

 

“Yeh played a good game there, Harry,” Hagrid said, handing Harry a steaming cup of tea. “Reminded me of yer father.”

“He played Quidditch?”

“Yeh. Chaser, I think he played. Mighty good un, too.”

Harry attempted to sip his tea and ended up burning his tongue.

“Rock cakes?” Hagrid offered.

“Er, no thanks,” Harry politely refused. “Uh, there’s a party later in the Slytherin common room, and I gotta save room for the pumpkin pasties.”

Hagrid looked put out, and Harry almost felt bad for him … only, the rock cakes were truly awful, and he had no intention of breaking his teeth.

“How’s school been, ‘Arry?” Hagrid asked.  “Stayin’ out of mischief?”

“It’s been good,” Harry said vaguely. “Pretty interesting. I’ve been doing a lot of research, too,” he hinted subtly.

“On wha’?”

“The cerberus, of course!”

“Don’ tell me yer still looking into that!” Hagrid exclaimed.

“It’s the most interesting thing that’s happened all year!” Harry protested. “How could I not?”

“Listen,” Hagrid said, suddenly serious. “Yeh can’t keep meddling in that -- it doesn’ concern yeh. You forget about that dog, an’ you forget about what it’s guardin’, that’s between Professor Dumbledore an’ Nicolas Flamel.”

Harry’s eyes widened. So there was someone named Nicolas Flamel involved.

“Run along, now.”

Harry quickly thanked Hagrid for the tea, then ran off at full tilt towards the common room.

“Asphodel,” Harry intoned. The door slid open, and Harry was immediately assaulted by a wall of noise. Someone had found a wireless and was playing the Weird Sisters at full volume. Slytherin Quidditch posters decked the walls, and the tables were piled with food. Harry just stared for a moment, taking in the sight. Malfoy was over by the pumpkin juice -- Harry made a quick mental note to stay far away from there -- and Ron was awkwardly talking to Blaise by the pastry table.

Harry frowned. Blaise was the only roommate he couldn’t get a good read on. The others were simple enough. Malfoy was a stuck up prat, Crabbe and Goyle were human bricks, Theo was a Ravenclaw at heart, and Ron was his best mate. Blaise, on the other hand...Harry supposed he was alright, with all things considered. He was smart, and always had snarky comebacks ready for when Malfoy inevitably said something idiotic. There was something about Blaise, though, and Harry couldn’t quite put a finger on it. Ron always seemed a little on edge around him, and Harry originally thought that Blaise’s family might be more powerful than Ron’s. A quick jaunt to the library had proven otherwise, leaving Harry back at square one.

Harry looked up. Blaise and Ron were still by the pastry table. Maybe he could figure something out. He was about to over to the pastry table when Hermione cornered him.

“So?” she demanded. “I saw you heading to Hagrid’s after the match.”

Harry looked around. No one was in earshot. “The dog is definitely guarding something.”

“And?”

Merlin, the girl had a nose for information like a bloodhound! “There’s someone named Nicolas Flamel involved.”

“Nicolas Flamel?”  
“Yeah. Have you heard of him before?”

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “No, I don’t think so. His name seems familiar, though. I’ll have to investigate it… and if there’s one thing I’m good at --”

“It’s investigating, I know,” Harry interrupted. “Now let’s go eat.”

They headed towards the pastries, and all the while Hermione was grinning like a cat that got the cream.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And there you have chapter 13! I hope you all enjoyed it.
> 
> One of my readers on ffn asked a question in the reviews, and I’m going to answer it here in case other people are wondering the same thing.
> 
> Q: Who is Lord Moon? Is he canon or an OC?
> 
> A: Lord Moon is pretty much an OC. He’s the father of Lily Moon, who is one of Rowling’s original 40, but since we get zero information on either of them in canon, he’s an OC.


	14. Mirror, Mirror

_ History of Magic Classroom _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 12 December 1991 _

 

“And then,” Professor Binns droned, “the Roman empire fell, leaving a power vacuum in Europe.” 

Ron doodled idly on his parchment, having given up paying attention half an hour ago. Hermione, of course, was busy taking notes, and Harry was creating a pile of drool on his parchment. Ron glanced over at the Hufflepuffs. Leanne Malone and Sally Smith were busy playing hangman, but everyone else was writing at least something down.

Ron looked sheepishly at his parchment which contained many drawings of Malfoy reimagined as a flobberworm and nothing related to class. 

“As an overview for our next class, we will cover post-Unification Britannia. After the Great Unity of Wales and England,” Professor Binns continued, “political structure began to form. True government would not emerge for several hundred years, however, after the merging with the Kingdom of Caledonia, now known as Scotland, and the Éire Republic, now known as Ireland. Now, for homework tonight -- ” 

There was a great clattering as students rose from their respective stupors. 

“ -- I expect six inches on the clan structure of the Kingdom of Caledonia and another six inches on the covens of the Éire Republic.” With that, Professor Binns rose from his desk and floated back through the chalkboard. 

Ron quickly jotted down the homework, rolled his parchment, and stuffed it in his bag. He was just about to head out the classroom door when someone shoved him from behind. Ron whirled around, and was greeted by the sight of Zacharias Smith’s square face. 

“What do you want, Smith?” 

“Is it true you’re staying at Hogwarts over the winter hols?” Smith demanded.

Ron’s brow furrowed. “How’s that any of your business?”

“Is it because your family is too poor to handle having all you kids home?”

“No! Mum’s going to visit Charlie in Romania -- ” 

“Oh, and she can’t  _ afford _ to take the rest of you along?” Smith sneered.

Ron was starting to get angry. Malfoy commenting about his money was one thing, but Smith starting in was a whole ‘nother. “Look, Smith, you better shut your gob -- ”

“Or what? Your father will lay down the law?” Smith feigned remembrance. “Oh right,  _ your _ stupid muggle-loving father got himself blown up, just like all his equally dumb brothers. You’re a spare, just like him. Bet you’re secretly hoping for your brothers to be blown up so you can have a chance at power.” 

Ron saw red. “Don’t you  _ dare _ talk about my family like that! My uncles and my aunt and my cousins were all  _ murdered _ by You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters! Oddly enough, I don’t remember  _ your _ family being murdered,” Ron snapped. “Maybe your precious father was too busy schmoozing with You-Know-Who!”

“Shut your filthy, slanderous mouth -- ” 

“What,” said a cold voice, “is going on here?” 

Ron swallowed hard. He knew that voice all too well. 

“Mr. Weasley? Would you care to explain?” 

Ron opened his mouth to defend himself, but Smith interrupted him. 

“Weasley started saying all these heinous things about my family!” Smith whined. “He obviously doesn’t even know what he’s talking about. You can’t just go around insulting a Moste Ancient house like that!”

“Are you done with your  _ little _ rant, Mr. Smith?” Professor Snape asked coolly. “Yes? Very well then. Both of you will follow me to my office.” 

They followed Professor Snape silently, Smith shooting Ron dirty looks all the way down to the dungeons. With a murmured word, the door to Professor Snape’s office swung open, then closed quietly behind them.

“Sit,” Professor Snape said, pointing to the hard wooden chairs. 

“But we’ll miss lunch!” Smith protested. 

“How careless of you,” Professor Snape quipped. 

A small grin made its way onto Ron’s face. 

“Something funny, Mr. Weasley?”

“No, sir,” Ron said hurriedly, schooling his features. 

“Good. Now, Mr. Smith, you claimed Mr. Weasley slandered your family?” 

“Yes! And he has no right to do so!”

Ron had a retort on the tip of his tongue and was about to lash out at Smith when Professor Snape quirked an eyebrow. Ron looked at Professor Snape in confusion as Smith continued to spew lies about him.  Then, it dawned on him. Smith was digging his own grave, and all Ron had to do was sit quietly. It rankled him a bit, but the feeling of being in on one of Professor Snape’s plans made up for it.

“…and then he accused my relatives of conspiring with You-Know-Who -- ”

Professor Snape held up a hand. “Mr. Smith, I have heard enough. Mr. Weasley?” 

“Yes? Sir?”

“What is your side the story?” 

Ron took a deep breath. He needed to stay calm. “Smith started harassing me after History of Magic,” he began, “He was making fun of my family and how my siblings and I are staying at Hogwarts over Yule. He then began insulting my family’s wealth and my relatives who passed during the Dark Uprising. I -- ” Ron purposely stumbled, “I shouldn’t have lost my temper, but it brought up a lot of bad memories and -- ” 

“He’s lying!” Smith spit. “He -- ”

Professor Snape flicked his wand.

Smith’s mouth kept moving, but no words came out. 

“Wicked,” Ron breathed before he could stop himself. 

“Thank you, Mr. Weasley. Now, Mr. Smith, I find myself at odds with your conclusion that Mr. Weasley is lying. Your recollection most certainly does not correlate with my own observations of the situation. I will lift the Silencing Charm if you can control your language -- ”

Smith nodded vigorously. 

Professor Snape flicked his wand. 

“But I’m the scion of the Moste Ancient House of Hufflepuff!” Smith complained. 

Ron rolled his eyes. Smith really was an idiot.

“Yes, you are.”

“And Ron isn’t!”

“Mr. Weasley is not.”

“So, he can’t tell me what to do!” 

“And why is that?”

“Because my House is older than his!”

Ron watched with glee as Professor Snape readied the proverbial knife.  _ Now _ he understood where Professor Snape was going with his plan!

“Really? I seem to recall things differently. House Weasley is a Noble and Moste Ancient House, and if that is not enough, they also control the Prewett and Gryffindor seats. House Prewett is an Ancient and Noble House, and House Gryffindor is a Moste Ancient House. Any one of those seats would equal your Hufflepuff claim, but all three of them together…” Professor Snape clucked his tongue disapprovingly. “I believe you are incorrect, Mr. Smith. Very incorrect. Twenty points from Hufflepuff for your misbehaviour.”

“But you have no right! You don’t know anything about pureblood society! My father said you’re just a halfblood!”

Something flashed in Professor Snape’s eyes, but it was too quick for Ron to name. “Make it forty points, Mr. Smith. Need I remind you that I am a professor at this school while you are merely a student? I will not tolerate any impertinence or disrespect. I suggest you leave this office before there are further consequences for your actions.”

Smith stumbled to his feet and headed towards the door.

“Oh, and Mr. Smith? I suggest you take a closer look at genealogy charts before you make any more false accusations.”

Smith suddenly couldn’t get out of the door fast enough, leaving Ron alone with Professor Snape.

“You have Herbology next, Mr. Weasley?”

“Er, yeah.” 

Professor Snape checked his wristwatch. “You do not have sufficient time to get lunch,” he observed. “You ought to have planned better, Mr. Weasley. I expect greater things from you than partaking in ridiculous school boy squabbles. That sort of behavior should not only be below you as a scion of powerful House, but also as a Slytherin. Your conduct today was borderline deplorable, and only slightly redeemed because you had the sense to keep your mouth shut whilst I spoke with Mr. Smith.”

Ron stared at his worn shoes. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“As you should be. I suppose you will be hungry now, too. Pity that you do not have time to go to the Great Hall.”

“I’ll be fine, sir,” Ron said, ignoring the rumbling protests from his stomach.

“I will be the judge of that.” Professor Snape snapped his fingers, “Tilly!”

A house elf popped into view. 

“Bring a sandwich platter and a flagon of pumpkin juice for Mr. Weasley.”

Ron could feel his ears turning pink as the elf popped back to the kitchen. “You didn’t have to do that for me, sir.”

Professor Snape looked at him strangely, but didn’t say anything.

Tilly the house elf popped back into existence, placed a large tray of ham and turkey sandwiches in front of Ron along with a flagon of pumpkin juice.

“I trust you will get to class on time and not destroy my office?”

Ron blinked. “Um, of course. Sir.”

Professor Snape stood, and turned to leave. Ron hastily finished chewing. “Sir? Are you not going to eat?”

“No.” 

He swept out of the room, leaving a slightly confused Ron behind. Shrugging, Ron bit into the next sandwich. Professor Snape was way cooler than he originally thought.

* * *

 

_ First Year Slytherin Dormitory _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 25 December 1991 _

 

Bump.

“Ron, wake up!”

Bump.

“Oi, Ron!”

Bump. 

“There are  _ presents _ !” Harry shouted in an overly perky, happy voice. 

Ron groaned. “I’m sleeping!” he protested.

“Not anymore!” sang Harry. “C’mon!” 

Ron opened an eye. “Eeuch! Why are you so close to my face?”

“Sorry,” Harry said sheepishly, backing away. “So, presents?”

“Yeah, sure,” Ron said blearily, still trying to come to terms with being vertical. 

“I still can’t believe it,” Harry was babbling.

Ron felt like he was missing something crucial. “You can’t believe what?” 

“That I got presents!”

“Harry… what do you mean, that you got presents? 

“… that I got presents,” Harry replied, sounding slightly confused.

“Is that not normal?”

“Well… not really. I mean, the Dursleys usually give me things, but coat hangers and Uncle Vernon’s old sweat socks.”

A silence descended over them. 

“Er, let’s open those presents then, yeah?” Ron finally said, eyeing the pile of gifts at the end of Harry’s bed, “Bet you’ve got something better than sweat socks this year.” Or at least one thing better than sweat socks, Ron noted privately. The lumpy package wrapped in coarse brown paper could only be a Weasley jumper. 

Ron resisted the urge to bang his head on the bedside table. Why had he mentioned Harry to his mother? He really should have known she would do something embarrassing, not to mention something they plainly couldn’t afford. 

Ron turned to his own pile of gifts. There was the typical lumpy package from Mum, an assortment of smaller boxes wrapped in pages from the  _ Daily Prophet _ , which had to be from his brothers, and a square box neatly wrapped in polka dot paper with a red bow on top. 

Ron tore open the package from Mum -- the jumper was maroon, again -- and moved onto the gifts from his brothers. Bill had sent him a book on chess techniques along with a couple of Galleons spending money while Charlie gave him a dragon leather wand sheath with a note explaining it was also a birthday present. Percy, on the other hand, had given him a homework planner. Ron eyed the last  _ Daily Prophet _ wrapped package suspiciously. It could only be from Fred and George, which meant it was probably booby trapped. 

Ron sniffed the package gingerly, then coughed. Dungbombs. Fred and George had sent him  _ dungbombs _ . 

“You alright?” asked Harry, who was already sporting a chunky emerald green jumper. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Ron said, “Just inhaled dungbomb fumes. Fred and George try to prank my Yule gifts every year.” 

“Ah. Er, tell your mum thanks for the jumper! It’s real cozy.” 

“Alright.” Ron eyed the box of chocolate frogs sitting on Harry’s bedspread. “Say, who gave you the chocolate frogs?”

“Hermione. Bet she gave you something too,” Harry said, pointing towards the polka dot gift. “She used that paper on my present.” 

Ron tore into the package, revealing a large box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans. “Aww, nice! Hey, d’you think I could pick out all the nasty ones and give them to Fred and George as a prank?” 

Harry wasn’t paying attention. 

“Harry?”

“I’ve got a note,” Harry said slowly. “It’s not sighed though.”

“What’s it say?”

Harry wordlessly passed the note over. 

_ Your father left this in my possession before he died _ , Ron read.  _ Use it well. A very merry Christmas to you.   _ “Well, that’s bloody strange! Go on, open it. Be careful though. Just in case it’s dangerous.”

Harry gingerly unwrapped the paper, revealing a puddle of silvery fabric. “Should I…” Harry asked, gesturing at the fabric.

“Yeah, it looks alright.” 

Harry pulled the fabric out of its packaging, revealing a long cloak. “Guess I’ll try it on.” He pulled it over his shoulders, and abruptly disappeared. 

“Blimey!”

“What?”

“That’s -- that’s an invisibility cloak!” Ron exclaimed. “They’re incredibly rare, not to mention insanely valuable. Who do you reckon gave it to you?”

“Dunno. The note had no name.” 

“Huh. That’s odd.” 

Harry wandered over to the mirror. “Bloody hell, I really am invisible!” 

“Yeah. So, what are you going to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“You have an invisibility cloak! You can go wherever you want!”

A pensive look settled over Harry’s face. “Didn’t Hermione say there might be books on Nicolas Flamel in the Restricted Section?”

_ First Year Slytherin Dormitory  _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 26 December 1991 _

“Ron! Ron wake up!” Harry whispered urgently. “I found something. You’ve got to come along…” 

Ron groaned. “Can’t it wait until morning?”

“No!” 

Ron yawned loudly. “You sure?”

“Yes!” 

Ron blinked blearily. “Alright. Give me a mo’,” he yawned again. “You sure this is important?” 

“ _ Yes! _ ”

Ron grudgingly slipped out of bed and into his slippers. Harry quickly threw the cloak over the two of them, and they snuck out of the dormitory. 

“My toes are freezing,” Ron complained quietly. They’d been wandering the corridors for quite some time, and Ron had forgotten to wear socks. “Let’s just go back some other time.” 

“ _ No! _ ” Harry hissed. “I know it’s here somewhere.” 

They continued walking, Ron’s feet almost dead with cold. 

“It’s here!” Harry whispered excitedly, pointing towards a suit of armor. “Just here -- yes!” 

The door creaked open, and they slipped inside. Harry dropped the cloak from his shoulders and rushed over to a tall ornate mirror. Ron frowned. The mirror nearly reached the ceiling, and its intricate gold frame ended in two clawed feet. The inscription  _ erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi _ scrolled across the top. Ron shivered. Something about the mirror felt wrong. It felt dangerous. It carried the feeling of something  _ other _ . 

Harry knelt before the mirror, enraptured. “See?” he asked. 

“I don’t see anything. Just you and the mirror.” 

“Look!” Harry insisted. “Look at them all…there are loads of them…”

Ron’s brow furrowed. He didn’t like this. Didn’t like this at all. “I can only see you.” 

Harry tore his gaze away from the mirror. “Try standing where I was standing.”

Ron shuffled into place, and for a moment, the mirror only held the image of him in his too short paisley pajamas. Then, it rippled.

Ron gasped. He was suddenly older, and dressed in the deep violet robes of the Wizengamot. His hair was longer, like his brother Bill’s, and tied back in a queue. His trousers were a deep immaculate black, and his shirt a crisp white. A dark grey vest peeked out of the top of his robes, and the Weasley family crest shone brightly from the left breast of his robes.

He looked confident. He looked  _ powerful _ . 

“Look at me,” Ron breathed, his former apprehension washing away. Maybe the mirror showed the future. Maybe it --

“Can you see your family standing around you?” Harry asked.

Ron looked at him in confusion. “No -- I’m different -- I’m a Wizengamot Lord --”

“ _ What? _ ” 

“I am -- I’ve got the robes, the family crest -- D’you reckon this mirror shows the future?” 

Harry stared at his shoes. “No. How can it? All my family are dead.”

“So that’s what you see?”

“Yeah. Me. My mum. My dad. My grandparents.” 

Ron swallowed. Was there something wrong with him? Was there a reason he, too, wasn’t seeing his family?

“Move over,” said Harry. “I want another look.”

“You’ve already had a turn -- ”

“What’s so interesting about being a Wizengamot Lord? I want to see my parents.”

“Hey!” Ron protested as Harry gave him a shove. “Don’t push me!” 

“ _ Meow. _ ”

Harry and Ron froze. 

“Is that - -”

“ -- Mrs. Norris?” 

They shared a look of horror. 

“Quick! Under the cloak!” 

No sooner had they vanished beneath the cloak then Mrs. Norris slinked through the door. They stood silently as she stared at them with her lamp-like eyes. Ron crossed his fingers. Hopefully the cloak worked on cats. After an age, Mrs. Norris left. 

“Let’s go,” Ron said. “Can’t risk Mrs. Norris coming back with Filch.” With that, Ron pulled a reluctant Harry out of the room.

* * *

 

_ Slytherin Common Room _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 30 December, 1992 _

 

“Hey, Harry?” Ron asked, looking up from  _ Auror Bartleby and the Ancient Tower _ . “Do you reckon Hogwarts has a lower dungeon for prisoners?” 

Harry shrugged.

“C’mon, you must be curious!”

“Eh.” 

Ron glanced over in concern. Harry had been slightly withdrawn ever since they’d found that stupid mirror. Ron was starting to worry about him. “Are you alright, mate?” 

Harry shrugged again.

Ron’s eyes darted around the room. “Look,” he said, leaning in closer, “this isn’t about that mirror, it it?”  
“No, no, it’s not,” Harry said distantly. 

“Really.”

“Yeah.”

“Then why don’t you want to go exploring?”

“Dunno.”

Ron ground his teeth in frustration. “Please! Won’t you join me?” he begged. 

“I don’t really want to.”

“I’ll give you my History of Magic notes,” Ron cajoled. 

“You don’t have any!”

“Well…”

“Told you so.” 

“Hermione has notes,” Ron pointed out.

“Yeah, but she won’t share them with us.” 

“Maybe if I ask really nicely…”

Harry snorted. “Not likely.”

“It doesn’t hurt to ask. So, exploring?”

“Eh…”

Ron cast a forlorn look at his  _ Auror Bartleby _ book. “I’ll even do your share of the Nicholas Flamel research.”

“Deal, then.”

Ron slid his bookmark into place. “Ready?”

“I guess.”

They headed out of the common room towards the main dungeon staircase. 

“What’s the plan?” Harry asked.

“Go down the staircase, then take a look around. Once we’re done with one level, go on to the next.” 

They headed down the narrow staircase. Ron hadn’t had a reason to go down to the lower dungeons before. Both the Potions classroom and the Slytherin dungeons were located on the first dungeon level, and the underground harbour was located on the level below that. Not that Ron had explored the harbour level before -- they’d been chivied up the stairs for the Sorting Ceremony before he’d had a chance to look at anything. 

“Alright,” Ron said once they’d reached the bottom of the stairs. “I think this is the harbour level.” 

They walked down the corridor. It was decently lit, although the ceiling was lower than the one above. Large stone blocks formed the walls, and the floor sloped slightly beneath their feet. 

“Which way?” Harry asked upon reaching a fork. 

“The right.”  

The corridor narrowed, and the walls took on a damp cast.

“I think we’re under the lake!” Ron said, “Maybe we’re close to the harbour?” 

Harry shrugged. “I haven’t got a clue -- my sense of direction is rubbish.” 

They continued walking. 

“Ah ha!” Ron exclaimed triumphantly several minutes later. “I was right! This is the harbour!”  Ron peered into the gloom. Sure enough, there was a small fleet of boats. “Fancy a boat ride, Harry?” Ron asked jokingly. 

Harry rolled his eyes. “C’mon, let’s see if we can find anything else.” 

“Let’s explore the beach more.”

Harry sighed. “Okay.” 

The light from the corridor didn’t quite reach the entire beach, and Ron headed off carefully, not wanting to trip over any stray rocks. “Look, Harry, the beach goes all the way this way!” he said, pointing left. 

Harry crunched over to him. “How far do you think it goes?”

“Dunno. Only one way to find out. I’m gonna light my wand up though. I can’t see for beans!  _ Lumos! _ ” A soft yellow light blossomed at the end of Ron’s wand, and he held it aloof. “There’s the harbour entrance over there, and it looks like the beach keeps on going…Hey, look, what’s that on the wall?” 

“Dunno.  _ Lumos! _ Can you see it better now?”

Ron raised his wand higher and squinted. There was something engraved on the rock, but he couldn’t quite make it out. “Looks like some sort of sigil. Let’s go closer.” 

They walked closer, and Ron could make out the details. “I think it’s a lion…maybe for Gryffindor?”

Harry was further along. “I think I found a Ravenclaw eagle… and a Hufflepuff badger! And here’s a snake for Slytherin,” Harry said, high-fiving the wall. “Go Slyther -- ”

A grinding sound filled the air, and Ron’s stomach dropped. “Please don’t tell me you just brought down the castle.” 

“I didn’t just bring down the castle…uh, Ron? I think there’s stairs over here.” 

“Stairs?” Ron’s stomach butterflies immediately vanished. Maybe they had just found a new secret passageway -- one even the twins didn’t know about!

“Yeah, the twisty spiral kind. Looks like they go down a bit too.”

“Wait for me!” Ron said, hurrying over. He shined his wand light into the small stairwell where a tight spiral staircase twisted into the shadows. “You want to explore this?”

“Yeah, definitely! Let’s leave a rock in the door though, just in case it closes.” Harry quickly grabbed a medium sized stone and wedged it by the doorframe. “Alright, let’s go.” 

Holding his wand tightly, Ron descended the stone steps, half expecting some sort of creature to jump out at him. Ron didn’t know any hexes yet, so it wasn’t like he could actually harm something, but he knew all too well that even sparks hurt at a close enough range. 

“How far down do you think we are?” Harry asked after several twists of the staircase.

Ron squinted back up at the light from the door. “Maybe five meters?”

They continued downwards. There were several old brackets on the wall, and all of them were in the shape of snakes. Suddenly, Ron’s trainers hit smooth rock. “Harry, I’ve reached the bottom!” he called, raising his wand to shed light on the corridor. It was a couple heads taller than Ron, but narrow enough that he could touch the walls with both hands.  _ Perhaps it’s a secret lair _ , Ron thought excitedly, heading further down the corridor, Harry close behind him.  _ Maybe I’m about to discover the most awesome thing ever. _

“Looks like there’s a door ahead,” Harry noted, pulling Ron from his thoughts. 

Ron looked up. A tall doorway stood in front of them. Serpents twisted through its frame, and yet another snake formed the handle. Bars of dark wood and black metal interlocked to form the door itself. Ron tried the handle. “It’s locked!”

“Let me try.” Harry rattled the handle. “Argh!”

“Maybe a spell will work?” Ron suggested doubtfully. “ _ Alohomora! _ ” 

Still nothing. 

Harry pushed at the door with its hands, and frowned in disappointment when it remained closed. 

“I bet Hermione will know how to open the door.” 

Ron nodded in agreement. “Speaking of Hermione, we have a lot of research to do.”

Harry smiled. “You mean  _ you _ have a lot of research to do. You said if I went exploring, you’d do my share of research.”

Ron groaned. Why had he made such a poor decision?


	15. Secrets Unveiled

 

_ Slytherin Common Room _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 11 January, 1992 _

 

Harry grinned. His winter holiday had been brilliant, and now that the rest of the Slytherins were back, he and Ron could play Exploding Snap with people  _ not _ named Fred and George.

Harry carefully placed a card, then watched as it blew up in Blaise’s face. 

“Ha! Take that!” Harry crowed. 

Theo and Ron chuckled, while Blaise adopted a look of deep hurt.

“Harry! How could you?” 

Harry pretended to crack his knuckles. “I’m just evil like that.” 

“Harry! Ron!” Hermione’s excited voice greeted. “How was your holiday?” 

“Good,” Harry quickly replied before going back to study his cards.

“Pretty good. We got in a massive snowball fight with my brothers, then the twins charmed snowballs to bounce off Quirrell’s turban!” Ron said, grinning. “But then he levitated Fred and George and dumped them in a giant pile of snow,  _ and _ he made snowballs chase them around the grounds for the rest of the morning. It was awesome!”

“Hey! What are we, chopped liver?” Blaise asked.

“You’ve barely said two words to me all year!” Hermione protested

“So?”

“So, I don’t know you!”

Zabini made a sad puppy face.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Fine, Zabini. How was  _ your _ winter holiday?” 

“Quite enjoyable. Thank you for asking.”

Theo opened his mouth to protest, but Hermione beat him to it. “And you, Nott?”

“It was…fine.”

“Ron, Harry, can I borrow you for a moment?” Hermione asked.  “My parents got me a chess book for Chr- Yule, and I wanted to ask you a question about it.”

“Now?” Ron whined.

“Yes, now.”

“But I have a winning hand!”

Harry peeked over at Ron’s cards.

“Hey!” Ron protested.

“He has a rubbish hand,” Harry declared.

“Harry!” 

“Thanks, Harry,” Hermione cut in. “Ron, wait here a moment.” 

She quickly hurried back to her dorm room, grabbed a chess book -- an old one, not one she’d received for Christmas -- and sped back to the common room. 

“Alright, Ron, Harry” Hermione said, beckoning them over to an alcove. “Here’s the book.”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “I’m guessing this isn’t about chess.”

“No. It’s about Flamel. Did you guys find out anything?” 

Ron grumbled. “Well,  _ I _ didn’t.”

“What about Harry?”

“ _ I _ didn’t have to,” Harry said proudly.

Hermione huffed in exasperation. “Did you even  _ research _ ?”

“I did -- IlostabetwithHarrysohedidn’t.”

The last jumble of words was incomprehensible, and Hermione frowned. “What?”  
Ron sighed. “I did a bit of research. Harry didn’t do any though, because I made a deal with him.”

“What was this dumb deal you made with Harry?”

“Just one to make him go exploring with me.”

“Did you guys find anything interesting?” she asked, annoyance leaking into her voice.

“Er, yeah, actually, we did,” Ron admitted.

“And what was it?”

Harry looked around for eavesdroppers. “A secret room.”

“A secret room,” Hermione repeated. “Really?”

“Well…” Harry said slowly, not wanting to disappoint Hermione, “we  _ think _ it’s a secret room. We found a secret door leading to a secret staircase leading to another secret door, and we couldn’t open the second secret door, so we think there must be a secret room  _ behind _ it --”

Hermione cut him off. “Woah. Slow down. You found a secret staircase behind a secret door?” 

“Yeah.”

“Show me?” 

Harry and Ron quickly led Hermione down to the lower level of the dungeons, ignoring the protests of Theo and Blaise over the abandoned game of Exploding Snap. 

“So, is this the lowest level of the dungeons?” Hermione asked as they headed down the corridor to the harbour.

Ron shook his head. “No, I think there’s one, maybe two more levels below this where they use to keep prisoners.”

“Really? Why’d the school need a place to keep prisoners?”

“Back in the old days, it was a fortress, too. If there was an attack or something, the Hogsmeade villagers would take refuge in the castle.”

“Wow.” 

“Yeah.” 

“So,” Harry said. “This is the underground harbour where we arrived at the beginning of term.”

“Okay. Where’s the secret door?”

“This way,” Harry said, pointing down the rocky beach. The light was dim, even during the day. “You might want to light up your wand.  _ Lumos! _ ”

“ _ Lumos! _ ”

“ _ Lumos! _ ”

“Anyways,” Harry continued, “we found these symbols carved into the harbour wall -- a lion for Gryffindor, an eagle for Ravenclaw, a badger for Hufflepuff, and a serpent for Slytherin. I pushed on the Slytherin one -- just as a yay, Slytherin thing, y’know -- and it  _ moved _ . The next thing Ron and I knew, there was this spiral staircase going down, and we followed it, and there was a corridor with a door at the end!” 

“Go on, then.” 

Harry pushed on the snake, and the stone swung open. 

Hermione walked forward, wand held aloof. “It doesn’t smell musty.” 

Harry looked at her in confusion. “What?”  
“The air doesn’t smell stale. Whatever this place is, it’s either well ventilated or visited frequently.” 

Harry gulped. The idea of finding another person at the bottom of the dark twisty staircase was a frightening one. 

“So, are we going down?” Ron asked, cutting through Harry’s thoughts.

“Er, yeah. Uh, I can go first.” Harry raised his lit wand high and ventured down the spiral staircase, Hermione and Ron close behind him. 

“Look, the ceiling extends upwards a bit,” Hermione noted. “Whatever this place is, I don’t think a stairwell was its original intention.” 

“What else could it be?” 

“I don’t know. I was just making note of it.” 

“Oh.” 

They continued their descent, and once they reached the bottom, Hermione started shining her wand light around and muttering like she was Sherlock Holmes. 

“…stone work is different here…hmm …ah ha! …no, that can’t be right …” 

Seemingly satisfied, Hermione headed off down the corridor. Harry and Ron exchanged a shrug before following her. Harry had no idea as to what Hermione was doing, but it looked productive so he didn’t complain. 

“Is this the door?” Hermione called.

“If you’re staring at a big ornate thing with serpents on it, then yes,” Harry called back.

“Okay. Did you try  _ Alohomora _ ?” 

“Of course! We’re not stupid, you know.” 

“ _ Alohomora! _ ” 

“Hermione! I said we already tried that!” 

Hermione smiled sheepishly. “I was just double checking! Did you try any other unlocking spells?”  
“No. I don’t know any. Do you, Ron?”

“No. I think Percy mentioned one a while back, but I forget it now.” 

“ _ Reserare! _ ” Hermione encanted, twisting her wand in a figure eight before jabbing it towards the door. Nothing happened. 

“Told you -- ” Harry began.

Hermione cut him off. “Shush. I have another one to try.  _ Patefio! _ ” 

Still nothing. 

“Maybe it’s just a more complicated unlocking charm,” Ron suggested helpfully, “you know, one more advanced than first year curriculum.” 

Hermione sniffed. “The Patefio Charm is third year material, I’ll have you know!” 

“… or more advanced than third year material.”

Hermione harrumphed, then sighed. “You’re probably right. Do you know what that means?” she asked, getting a maniacal look in her eye.

Harry and Ron simultaneously groaned. 

“The library!” 

They quickly made their way out of the dungeon to the Slytherin dorms since Hermione insisted she needed her bookbag as well as a quill and parchment before going to the library. 

“Aconite.”

The door to the common room slid open, and Harry was greeted by the sight of Blaise and Theo playing Exploding Snap with Crabbe and Goyle. Luckily, Malfoy was nowhere in sight.

“So, Harry,” Blaise asked. “Where did the three of you head off to so suddenly?”

Harry swallowed hard. He hadn’t meant to abandon the Exploding Snap game, but showing Hermione the secret door had been very important. “Er…”

“Secret Slytherin things,” Ron butted in. “You know, making big and mysterious plots to take over the world. That sort of thing.”

Blaise chuckled. “Okay. But what were you actually doing?”

“Making big and mysterious plots to take over the world,” Harry said, laughing.

Hermione returned with her bookbag. 

“Granger, what were you guys up to?” Blaise asked, sounding frustrated. 

“Plotting world domination, of course,” Hermione said blithely. “What else?”

Blaise shook his head. “You guys are too much. When you actually want help, let me know.”

An awkward silence filled the air. 

“Library?” Hermione asked. 

Harry and Ron nodded, and followed her. 

“So,” Harry asked once they were out of the common room. “Should we tell Blaise about the door?”

“No,” Ron replied immediately.

“Why?”

Ron glanced around the corridor. “Not here.” He hurried them onto the library and into a back alcove. 

“What’s the deal with Blaise?” Harry asked again. 

Ron’s eyes widened. “You don’t know?” 

“No…should I?” 

“Yeah, what’s up with Zabini?” 

“You guys really don’t know?”

“No, Ron, we don’t know,” Hermione butted in impatiently. “Tell us already, okay?” 

Ron gulped. “Alright. Er, don’t know if I’m the right person to do this…”

Hermione shot him a furious look.

“Okay, okay! So Zabini’s mum, right, Maura Zabini? Have you guys heard of her at least? No? Well, er, she hasn’t got the best reputation.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “How so?”

“Er, her last six husbands have died.”

“She MURDERED them!?” Harry all but shouted, thoughts rushing around his head. How could someone just get away with murder? And how could Blaise walk around like it was no big deal? 

“No, no!” Ron exclaimed. “And shush, Harry, you can’t just go saying stuff like that! No one can  _ prove _ she did anything to them other than marry them.” 

“Start at the beginning, Ron,” Hermione prompted. “Who even is Maura Zabini?” 

“She’s from Italy originally, I think, related to some minor nobility there. She married Attilio Malandra, the younger son of some unimportant count. Blaise was born a year or so later, then a couple months after that Malandra died. Blaise’s mum remarried, and about a year later, that husband died as well. The pattern kept repeating, and each time, she’s married richer and richer wizards. The Zabinis are very wealthy now.  Not as rich as the Malfoys, say, but about as well off as the Marchbanks or the Runcorns. Anyway, Maura Zabini is known as the Widower, not that you should call her that if you want to emerge with your head intact.” 

“And what about Blaise?” Harry demanded.

Ron shifted uncomfortably. “Well, that’s the thing. Either he’s one hundred percent innocent and a complete dimwit, or he’s helped co-opt every single one of these murders since he could walk.”

* * *

 

_ Hogwarts Library _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry _

_ 14 January, 1992 _

 

Hermione was officially frustrated. She’d scoured almost every last centimeter of the Hogwarts library, and she hadn’t been able to find even the tiniest of hints about the mysterious door. Sneezing, Hermione closed  _ Hogwarts, A History (Fourth Edition) _ . She’d hoped to find an old schematic of the castle, but, so far, she’d had zero luck. 

Hermione slid the book across the librarian’s desk. “Excuse me, Madam Pince.” 

The crotchety woman peered at Hermione over her wire rimmed glasses. “Yes?”

“I was wondering if you had any books on the schematics of Hogwarts. I’ve checked  _ Hogwarts, A History _ but I couldn’t find anything there.” 

The librarian harrumphed. “ _ Hogwarts, A History _ does not contain schematics.” 

“Could you point me towards a book that does?” 

Madam Pince frowned. “It depends on why you want it -- you aren’t going to go causing mischief, are you?”

Hermione shook her head. “I’m a muggleborn in Slytherin. Sometimes I just need somewhere out of the way to be by myself.” 

To Hermione’s great surprise, the librarian nodded. “I can understand that,” she muttered, almost too quietly for Hermione to hear. “ _ Goodwin’s Treatise on Hogwarts _ should have the information you require --  _ Accio Goodwin’s Treatise on Hogwarts! _ ” 

Several seconds later, a leather bound book zoomed towards them.

“Thanks!” Hermione said, taking the book from the air.

Madam Pince sniffed. “It’s due in two weeks, remember.”

“I will! Thanks again!” 

Hermione trotted over to the nearest table and set the book down before curling up in a chair. She opened the cover and inhaled deeply, the lovely scent of old parchment filling her nose. Elegant calligraphy spelled out the author’s name and the title, and Hermione eagerly opened the book to page one. 

 

_ Chapter One: The Founders Four _

 

_ The illustrious history of Hogwarts begins in the year 500 A.D. just after the Great Unification of the Kingdoms of England and Wales. The Roman Empire had fallen, leaving a power vacuum in Europe. Powerful wizards sought to build their own monarchies, but there were three who thought differently: Godric Gryffindor of the Kingdom of Caledonia (now Scotland), Helga Hufflepuff of England and Wales, and Rowena Ravenclaw of the Éire Republic (now Ireland and Northern Ireland). All three wizards were exceptionally adept at magic and realized they would carry even more influence if they joined forces. Due to the estrangement of the Kingdom of Caledonia and the Éire Republic with the Kingdom of England and Wales, the three wizards began meeting clandestinely, and eventually came upon an idea that would unite their respective countries: a magic school. _

_ Although they tried to keep the information a secret, one wizard found out: the Iberian mage Salazar de Sliterín. He, along with his wife Amalia, his son Damián, and his close friend and confidant, Baron Sebastián Amare, journeyed to find the three wizards intent on creating a magic school. Eventually, Salazar found the three and impressed them enough with his skill in runic magic and wards that they allowed him to co-found the school with them. Salazar would henceforth be known as Salazar Slytherin.  _

 

Hermione skimmed the rest of the chapter, which detailed the backgrounds of the various founders. The information was interesting, but nothing that would help her map out the castle. She quickly flipped through  _ Chapter Two: The Political Climate _ and started in on reading  _ Chapter Three: The Construction of Hogwarts _ . Much to Hermione’s disappointment, the chapter focused more on the inter-guild dwarf politics and the dwarf-goblin rivalry than details on the actual layout of the castle. She was about to move onto  _ Chapter Four: The Building Tension _ when a tiny footnote caught her eye.  

_ *For further information on the foundation structure, consult Appendix A. _

 

Heart skipping a beat, Hermione quickly flipped to the back of the book. 

“Appendix A,” she muttered to herself. “Where’s Appendix A...ah ha!” she exclaimed, earning scowls from a pair of older Ravenclaws. Hermione studiously ignored them as she scanned the page for useful information. 

Ah. Now she knew exactly which angles the stone blocks forming the foundation of Hogwarts were cut at. Interesting, certainly, but not what she needed. Feeling slightly hopeful, Hermione flipped through the rest of the appendices. Appendices B and C were completely useless, but Appendix D was a complete diagram of the dungeons! 

With baited breath Hermione used her wand to zoom in on the diagram. Sure enough, she found the Slytherin common room and the Potions classroom. Hermione tapped twice to go down a level and traced her way down to the underground harbour. There was the boat passage out to the Black Lake, and...no mysterious door. 

Hermione heaved an internal groan of frustration. Why did everything have to be so difficult?

* * *

 

_ Potions Corridor _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 15 January 1992 _

 

“Psst, Harry, Ron!” Hermione hissed, trying to get their attention. They were busy gabbing away with Nott for some reason Hermione couldn’t fathom and were completely ignoring her. “Harry! Ron!” 

Harry finally looked over. “What?”

“I need to talk to you and Ron.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now.”

“Why?”

“Can’t say.” 

“Is it --  _ oh _ . Right. Oi, Ron! Hermione’s got to talk to us!”

Hermione cringed slightly at Harry’s lack of subtlety. Now  _ everyone _ would know. 

“Huh?” Ron asked.

“Hermione wants to talk to us,” Harry repeated. 

“Oh. Alright. See you later then, Theo.” 

Nott looked miffed, but seemed to shrug it off as he ambled away down the corridor. 

“This better be good, Hermione,” Ron said. “Me, Harry and Theo were having the best conversation about Quidditch…”

Hermione glanced around. The rest of the Potions class had disappeared up the dungeon stairs. “C’mon, over here,” she said, gesturing to an empty classroom. “I don’t want us to be overheard.” 

“Is it about the -- ”

“Shh!”

“Sorry.” 

Hermione closed the door behind them. “It’s about the door.” 

“And?”

“I can’t find it anywhere.”

Ron’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“There’s no references to it in the library.”

“Are you sure?” Harry asked.

“Yes -- I check  _ Hogwarts, A History _ all the way back to the fourth edition, and I read this other book Madam Pince gave me. It had schematics of the castle, but the door wasn’t on them.”

“Not even the first door?”

“No.” 

“Huh.” 

“So what do we do now?” Ron queried. 

“Well, I’ve combed through the history section pretty thoroughly, and I haven’t found anything there. I haven’t checked the Restricted Section, but I doubt it’d have any useful information. We could try checking upper level defense textbooks to see if there’s any useful unlocking spells and try those on the door. I don’t think there’s really anything we could master as first years considering I had trouble with the Patefio Charm and that’s only third year material. The door is obviously very old and it’d probably take a curse breaker or something to get through it.”

“So are you saying we give up?” Harry demanded. 

“No! I’m just saying it’s unlikely we’ll be able to force our way through the door.” 

“I think we should go down to the door again,” Harry said suddenly. 

“Why? We don’t have any new information.”

“We should go at night,” Harry continued.

Ron frowned. “What?”  
“In my adventure novels, things always change at night.” 

“Harry, if we go at night, we risk getting caught by a professor out on patrol.”

“But I have a good feeling about this!” 

Hermione sighed. “Fine. We can go tomorrow night after Astronomy. At least that gives us a somewhat reasonable reason to be out late. We can always say we were too tired to see where we were going and took a wrong turn by accident.” 

“So it’s a plan?” 

“Yes. We need to all try to get telescopes near each other on the far side of the tower. That’ll make it easier for us to sneak away from the group on our way back to the common room.” 

“And if we get caught?” Ron asked. 

“We’ll just pretend we’re dumb little first years.”

“You know that’s not going to work, right?”

Hermione scowled. “Let me dream, Ron.”

* * *

 

_ Astronomy Tower _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 17 January 1992 _

 

“Now, I would like everyone to locate Capella,” Professor Sinistra lectured. “It is the brightest star of the Auriga constellation. It is also the third-brightest star in the northern celestial hemisphere. Can anyone tell me the two stars in the northern celestial hemisphere that are brighter than Capella? Mr. Malfoy?”

“Arcturus and Vega.”

“Correct. Two points to Slytherin. Now, we know that Capella is one of the most prominent stars in the winter time, which makes today’s class the perfect opportunity to observe it. Does anyone know the meaning of Capella in Latin? Miss Granger?”

“It means ‘little goat’,” Hermione answered. 

“Correct. One point to Slytherin. In fact, its name and goat symbolism dates all the way back to the ancient muggle civilization of Mesopotamia. For homework, I would like everyone to write between one and two feet on the importance of Capella and other similar constellations mentioned in your reading to ancient Mesopotamian muggles as well as ancient Sumerian wizards. To get an O on this assignment, you will have to not only have a history component, but also compare and contrast the two groups. Are there any questions? Miss Bulstrode?” 

“Do we need to write about planetary movements as well?”

“Not for this assignment. Any other questions? No? Class dismissed.” 

Hermione yawned as she packed her quill and parchment away. Astronomy was interesting, but not at one o’clock in the morning. Hermione slowly buttoned her book bag closed, thoroughly regretting her decision to go along with Harry’s plan. She was about to fall asleep on her feet, and all she wanted to do was fall into her nice, soft bed. To her great chagrin, that was not a possibility, as she would very shortly be wandering through the lower dungeons of Hogwarts.  _ Joy. _

“I’m ready when you are,” Ron said from behind, startling Hermione. 

“And Harry?”

“I’m ready,” Harry piped up. 

Together they slowly headed down the Astronomy Tower stairs, making sure to stay back from the rest of the group. By the time they reached the first floor, the other first year Slytherins had vanished into the dungeons. They meandered down to the first dungeon level and paused.

“Do you hear anything?” Harry whispered.

“No. Do you?”

“No.”

“Okay. Are you guys ready to go?”

“I want to go to bed,” Hermione complained. “I’m tired.”

“C’mon, you can’t back out!”

“But -- ”

“You agreed to the plan, Hermione. Now, let’s go before someone shows up.” 

They snuck down to the harbour level, down the corridor and across the rocky beach. Harry pressed the secret door open, and they scurried down the staircase. Just as Hermione expected, the mysterious door at the bottom of the stairs didn’t open. 

“Aww, I was so sure it’d work!” Harry said, scuffing his trainers on the floor. 

“Do I get to say ‘I told you so’ now?” Hermione asked. 

Harry pouted. “You’re mean.” 

“I know. And I want to go to sleep. Let’s go back to the dorms.” 

Yawning enormously, they climbed back up the stairs, through the secret door, and across the beach. They tiptoed back up to the first dungeon level. The password to the Slytherin common room was on Hermione’s lips when --

“I see the three of you are out past curfew,” drawled a cold voice from the shadows.

Hermione screamed. Loudly. 

Professor Snape stepped out of the gloom. “The rest of your classmates returned from Astronomy nearly half an hour ago. Where were you?”

“We took a wrong turn,” Harry said earnestly, eyes wide. 

“Yeah,” yawned Ron. “We’re very tired and jus’ weren’t paying attention to where we were going.” 

Professor Snape quirked an eyebrow, and Hermione knew the jig was up. “And you were wandering the castle for an  _ hour _ ?” 

“Yes, sir.”

“I find that difficult to believe.”

“But it’s true!”

“That is quite doubtful, Mr. Weasley. Now, what do I do about your flagrant rule breaking?”

Hermione crossed her fingers. If they were lucky, they’d only lose points. 

“You seem to enjoy nighttime wandering,” Professor Snape began. “It only seems right that you should do more of it. In fact, I know Hagrid requires help...in the form of detention for the three of you next Friday night. You will meet Mr. Filch in the Great Hall at ten o’clock and he will escort you to Hagrid’s hut. Be certain to dress warmly -- your detention will take place in the Forbidden Forest.”

Hermione swallowed hard. “The Forbidden Forest, sir?”

“That is what I said, Miss Granger.”

“But isn’t it...forbidden for a reason?”  
“Certainly.”

“Then why do we have to go in there? Sir?”

“In order to learn, naturally. Now, hurry along to bed. It’s nearly two o’clock in the morning.” 

They scuttled off into the common room, Hermione fuming. 

“I told you so, Harry! I bloody well told you so!” she snapped. “Now we’re landed in detention in the  _ Forbidden Forest _ all because of your dumb idea! I hope you’re happy!” She stomped off to the girls’ dormitory, leaving two very bewildered boys behind. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: An exciting note!
> 
> I’m a little ahead on writing for this fic -- I’m currently on chapter 21 out of 22 planned chapters (for this volume). This first installment should clock in between 55k and 60k words. I've already gotten the sequel to Black Pawn planned out (currently at 27 chapters!). It will be titled White Knight.
> 
> Hope everyone is enjoying the fic! 
> 
> -Flye


	16. A Twist of Fate

 

_ Forbidden Forest _

_ Scotland _

_ 24 January 1992 _

 

“Mars is bright tonight,” observed Ronan. 

Firenze tossed his head back to gaze at the heavens. “Mars is bright tonight,” he concurred. “Uranus and Mercury shine, too.” 

Bane grunted in agreement. “The storm grows stronger.”

“So it does,” Firenze murmured. “Magorian is aware, yes?”

“He gazes at the stars, just as we do,” Bane replied. 

“Niamh moved the foals yesternight,” Firenze offered. 

Bane and Ronan did not reply. Silence hung in the air.

“Mars is bright tonight,” said Bane. 

Firenze craned his neck back and threw his hair out of his eyes. “Pluto begins its ascent. Soon, it will rise.” 

“Pluto is dark.”

“Dark, yes, but rising. I sense danger.”

“You are too paranoid, Firenze. Let your mind ascend past this earthly plane and into the celestial realm. Then, you may see even the dim light of the shadow planets as they roam the skies.” 

“Do you see the shadow planets, Bane?” 

The dark haired centaur did not respond, but Firenze was content to wait. Such was life. 

“Rahu rises,” Bane said after a moment. “And as for Ketu…” he froze. “Something is not right in the forest.” 

“Is it the oaf Hagrid?” asked Ronan. “He lacks intelligence, but is harmless.” 

Bane shook his head. “It is not the half-giant,” he said, sniffing the air, “it is something _different_. Something that does not belong in the forest. It feels like the _Other_ , a servant of Pluto, perhaps. Niamh was right to move the foals. The stars are not kind tonight.”

Firenze shivered. “What lurks in the forest?” 

“I know not, nor do I wish to. It is a dark, tainted presence that corrupts the very ground it stands on.” 

“It has been killing the unicorns.”

“Yes.” 

The word hung in the air. 

“And what will we do?”

Bane shrugged elegantly. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Magorian has indicated that.”

Firenze pawed the ground. “We have an obligation to the Forest, do we not?” 

“We do.” 

“Yet we sit here and do nothing?” 

“The stars have not told us to act.” 

“We are not tied to the stars,” Firenze argued. 

“We are not; however, we’ve followed them for centuries, and they have yet to lead us astray.” 

“There is a first time for everything,” Firenze muttered darkly. 

“The universe is vast, and time stretches for eternities.” 

“I have a bad feeling.”

“You are young.” 

“I have eyes and a mind.”

“You lack experience.”

“The truth often comes from the mouths of babes.”

“Do not quote the humans, Firenze. It is unbecoming.” 

“There is something dark in the forest -- ”

“It is  _ not _ our duty to interfere.” 

Firenze bowed his head. “Yes, Bane.” 

Silence filled the air as Bane and Ronan once again threw their heads skyward. 

“Mars is -- ” Ronan began.

A piercing scream filled the air. It was high, drawn out, and distinctly human. 

“ -- bright tonight,” Ronan finished. 

Firenze stared at him. “Ronan, someone is in trouble!” 

“It is not our duty -- ”

“Foals could be in  _ danger _ .” 

Bane shrugged. “Hagrid brought them here; it is his responsibility to keep them safe. If he fails, it is on his shoulders, not on ours.” 

Firenze was flabbergasted. “There are _ foals  _ in danger…” 

“Firenze, I forbid -- ”

“No. I must go. I refuse to stand idle.” Firenze wheeled around and plunged into the trees.

* * *

 

_ Forbidden Forest _

_ Scotland _

_ 24 January 1992 _

 

Silver blood glinted in the moonlight as the thing advanced closer, black cloak swirling around it. Hermione and Ron shrunk further back into the bushes. The figure drew something from its pocket -- whether it was a wand, stick, or a spear, Hermione couldn’t tell. 

Crabs pinched in the pit of her stomach as her heart beat at a million kilometers an hour. This was it. This was the end. 

The thing raised its arm and -- 

**CRASH.**

Hermione’s heart leapt into her throat as a hooved creature soared over them. A dull thud sounded, quickly followed by a strangled yelp and the pattering of footsteps running away. Hermione gulped and ducked behind Ron. What if the creature that rescued them was worse than the dark thing?

Hooves clopped closer, and Hermione’s heart began to race as panic started to set in. 

“Are you alright?” a low voice asked. 

Hermione bit back a shriek. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but she certainly hadn’t thought the creature would  _ talk _ . 

“I’m f-fine,” Hermione managed. “I’m sorry, who are you?” 

“I am Firenze,” the voice said smoothly. 

“D’you mind if I light my wand?” Ron asked. “It’s a bit difficult to see.”

“Do as you wish.”

“ _ Lumos! _ ”

Ron’s wand tip flared gold, and Hermione’s eyes widened. The creature before them was not a talking horse or a satyr, but rather a  _ centaur _ . Palomino hooves and body flowed seamlessly into a human torso. 

Hermione chewed the inside of her lip. Centaurs weren’t known for being particularly friendly to humans. Then again, these centaurs lived near a school, so perhaps they’d be more accommodating. But, students were warned not to go into the Forbidden Forest for a reason…

“Why are you in the Forest?” the centaur asked. 

“Detention,” Ron replied brusquely. 

The centaur raised an eyebrow. “Truly?”

“Unfortunately.” 

“It is now the practice of the humans at the school to send their foals into the Forest at night?” 

“Er, I dunno.” 

“That would be incredibly foolish of them, but then again, your kind is not known for their wisdom. Did you come here alone?”

“No -- we were with Hagrid. Well, Harry was with Hagrid, and we were with Fang, but then Fang ran off.” 

Firenze tilted his head skyward. “Hmm...I wonder…” 

“Wonder what?” Ron interrupted.

“The stars,” said Firenze, gesturing vaguely. “Mars is bright tonight.” 

“What does that mean?” Hermione asked. 

“It could mean something. It could also mean nothing at all. It could be a start, or an end. It is too soon to know.”

Hermione frowned. Reading the stars seemed very wooly. 

“You should return to Hagrid,” Firenze was saying. “It is not safe for you to wander the Forest alone.” 

“He’ll find us eventually,” said Ron, doubt leaking into his voice.

“But will he find you before the Dark One does? I think not. Do you ride?”

“No, not really,” Hermione said as Ron gasped. “What, Ron?”

He looked at her in shock. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?” 

Ron lowered his voice. “You don’t ride on centaurs’ backs. It’s just not done. It’s  _ really _ not done.” 

“I don’t think we have a choice, Ron,” Hermione whispered back. 

“I’m not saying we shouldn’t do it. I’m just saying it’s  _ really _ unusual. Like I’ve never heard of this happening before.” Ron looked over to Firenze. “Er, we can ride well enough.” 

“Get on my back.” 

Ron climbed on, and reached a hand down to help Hermione up. Hermione’s hand brushed Firenze’s back, and the centaur froze. 

“Something is...off about you.” 

“What do you mean?”  
“I cannot name it...it is something _Other_.” 

Hermione froze, mind darting back to a warm summer night in Ireland.  _ What _ had  _ happened _ ? 

“Can you tell me anything about it?”

“No.”

“No?”

“It is not anything I have experienced before. But, it is something  _ Other _ . You must discover what it is.” 

“I will,” Hermione vowed, memories of the ritual surging into greater importance in her mind.  _ ‘I must.’ _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry for the delay in updating! To make up for it, I have two pieces of exciting news! 
> 
> I have finished writing Black Pawn -- it’s complete at about 57k words and just needs editing! Woo! Since this chapter was so short, I’m planning on posting the next chapter mid-week, then sticking to a weekly schedule for the rest of Black Pawn.
> 
> Fasten your seatbelts, because the final plot arc is going to be a wild ride!


	17. The Alchemist

_First Year Slytherin Dormitory_

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_30 January 1992_

 

Ron grinned as the final battle scene in _Auror Bartleby and the Cloak of Woden_ played out before his eyes, the tiny ink figure of Woden descending from the heavens to absolutely crush the villainous Grendel. Woden smashed Grendel’s face, sending the monster tumbling into the abyss as the god raised his staff in victory. Ron watched happily as the loop began again, then closed the book before heading over to Harry’s bookcase to grab the next in the series.

Speaking of Harry… Ron’s grin faded. He’d argued quite a bit with his friend after their detention in the Forbidden Forest. Harry had been with Hagrid for the whole thing, and he hadn’t feared for his life as the Dark Creature stalked towards him…

Ron swallowed. That night had been the most terrifying night of his life. Between the Dark Creature, then the complete flip with the centaur, Ron didn’t know what to think anymore. The fact that the centaur had _asked_ Ron and Hermione to ride on his back was weird and went against everything Ron knew, but the centaur’s reaction to Hermione was even scarier. The _Other_ wasn’t something one spoke of lightly. In fact, it wasn’t spoken of at all. The idea that Hermione could be somehow tainted by the _Other_ didn’t sit well with Ron. He didn’t know how to feel about it, nor what to think…

He shook his head to clear it. There was no use thinking about things he couldn’t solve, especially when Harry had a boxed set of _Auror Bartleby_ books he was letting Ron borrow. Ron slotted _Auror Bartleby and the Cloak of Woden_ back into the box and pulled out the next in the series, _Auror Bartleby and the Siren’s Song_. It’d been along time since he’d read it, and Ron excitedly climbed back onto his bed before opening the book to the first page and beginning to read.

**Thunder boomed and storm waves crashed along the sides of the boat. Auror Bartleby stood tall, his cloak streaming behind him as wind whipped through the air. He brandished his wand, easily creating a variation of the Bubble-Head charm to keep the ship deck dry. He knew he would need good footing for the upcoming battle.**

Ron eagerly read along as Auror Bartleby attempted to negotiate with the Sirens of Syros. They’d stolen the Stone of Power, and it was Auror Bartleby’s mission to find it and deliver it back to its reclusive owner, a wizard known only as the Alchemist.

The Alchemist had created the Stone of Power to bestow eternal life onto the one who consumed it.

Ron paused for a second. There was something niggling at the back of his mind...something about a stone…

Ron shrugged and continued to read. He’d probably remember it later.

**The Sirens sang, and conjured massive balls of flame. Auror Bartleby quickly created a wall of water, which smashed into the fire, extinguishing it. The Sirens sung even louder, but Auror Bartleby was able counteract the sound with some quick wand work. The Stone was important, and it could not fall into the wrong hands. The power it granted --**

Ron froze.

A stone.

A stone that granted _life_.

An alchemist.

“Buggering hell…” Ron breathed. It couldn’t be. _That_ was the stuff of legends, of stories Bill told him; not stuff of real life, and certainly not things one found hidden in school.

Ron bounded off the bed and began digging through his trunk. He felt like such an idiot for not thinking of this before...how stupid could he be? Now, where was it...ah ha!

Ron triumphantly brandished his box of Chocolate Frog cards. He knew he had a Flamel card in there somewhere. The only problem would be finding it among the five hundred or so cards he possessed.

Thirty minutes later, Ron held the Nicolas Flamel card in his hand.

 

_NICOLAS FLAMEL_

_~_

_Grand Sorcerer of Alchemy and Potions_

_~_

_Nicolas Flamel is one of the most celebrated wizards in the field of Alchemy. Not only did he work with his then-protégé Albus Dumbledore to discover the twelve uses of dragon’s blood as well as further several alchemical theorems, but he is also the only known creator of the Philosopher’s Stone. In his spare time, Flamel enjoys tending to his botanical garden and going on long walks on the beach with his wife, Perenelle._

 

Ron bit back a gasp.

The Philosopher’s Stone.

Flamel.

_Dumbledore._

Ron closed his eyes, struggling to remember what Bill told him when he first started working at Gringotts. Bill had gone on at length about the extent of protections placed on each Gringotts vault. _‘There’s very few places in the world that are more secure than a Gringotts vault,’_ Bill had explained. _‘Especially the high security ones deep underground. The only place that might be more secure -- and only from a ward standpoint, mind you, is Hogwarts.’_

Ron opened his eyes. It all made sense now. And -- Ron felt his heart freeze. _The Gringotts robbery. The Stone’s move to Hogwarts_.

Someone was trying to steal the Stone.

Ron bounded to his feet. He had to tell someone. Harry was at Quidditch practice and wouldn’t be around for the next few hours, but Ron had a solid feeling he’d find Hermione in the library.

* * *

 

_Hogwarts Library_

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland_

_30 January 1992_

 

“Hermione.”

The bushy haired witch glanced up irritably from her homework. “What is it, Ron? Can’t you see I’m in the middle of the Charms homework.”

Ron looked around furtively. “It’s about Flamel,” he whispered.

Eyes widening, Hermione set her quill down. “Okay. Spill.”

“He’s the creator of the Philosopher’s Stone -- a Stone that gives immortality to whoever consumes it. _And_ he’s friends with Dumbledore.”

“Well, shite.”

“What?”

“Someone’s trying to steal the damn thing!”

Ron stared at her. “Yeah, I know.”

“You do?”

“Someone robbed Gringotts, and now there’s a bloody Cerberus guarding the third floor corridor where. It’s not Advanced Arithmancy!”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Okay. So who?”

“Huh?”

“Who’s trying to steal it?”

“How should I know? There hasn’t been an attempt to steal it since the summer.”

“Then what do you call the troll on Samhain?”

“Bad luck?”

“No such thing. It was a distraction...” Hermione paused for a moment, “Or maybe an alibi.”

“Well, shite.”

“Language, Ron. Anyway, we ought to compile a list of possible suspects.”

“How do we -- ”

Hermione closed her Charms book and leaned closer. “It’s got to be an inside job, Ron. There’s no way an outsider could get through the wards.”

“So we’re looking at staff, then.”

Hermione pulled a fresh sheet of parchment out of her bookbag. “Okay, so for professors we have Snape, McGonagall, Flitwick, Sprout, Quirrell, Sinistra, Binns, Dumbledore, and who else?”

“Babbling, the Ancient Runes professor; Vector and Boyet, the Arithmancy professors; Burbage and Goldstein, the Muggle Studies professors; Kettleburn and Scamander for Care of Magical Creatures, and Trelawney for Divination. Oh, and Hooch for Flying.”

“Then for other staff we have Hagrid, Filch, Pince, and Pomfrey. Am I forgetting anyone?”

“Er, yeah. There’s the rest of the staff in each department. Let’s see, there’s Selwyn and duFeu for Potions, Oleander and Jones in Herbology, Cornfoot and Gamp in Transfiguration, Scrimgeour and Amare in DADA, plus Runcorn for Dueling, Vance and Ogden in Charms, Saros in Astronomy. I think Marchbanks teaches Ancient Studies, Magical Theory, and Spellcrafting, and Petrov teaches Languages of the Magical World and Politics and Economics.”

Hermione scribbled furiously on her parchment. “Anyone else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Excellent. Now we can start crossing people off the list. Binns can go right away, as can Hagrid and Filch.” Hermione slashed through their names, “And...we’re left with pretty much anyone. Great. Do you have any ideas?”

Ron glanced over the list. “Are we assuming they’re working alone or with an accomplice?”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“You’ve got to have some serious curse breaking skills to break into a Gringotts vault. If we assume they’re working without an accomplice, we can cross a lot of people off the list. You’ve got to have an R.A.T in Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, and Defense Against the Dark Arts at a minimum to become a cursebreaker.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “What’s a rat?”

“R.A.T -- not rat -- it’s the Ridiculously Arduous Test. It’s the next level of testing after O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s.”

“Are all your tests animal themed?”

“Huh? Ordinary Wizarding Levels and Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests? Oh. Er, I guess so?”

“So is the R.A.T. difficult to pass?”

“Yeah -- Bill had to study for four years to get his, but he took four exams. Charlie only took one, so it only took him about two years to complete the program and pass the exam.”

“Are these just post-Hogwarts?”

“Nah, you’ve got to go to uni for that. Bill went to the Oxford College of Wizardry and also did an exchange program at the Alexandrian Library in Egypt. Charlie, I think, got into a research program somewhere on the Loess Plateau Dragon Reserve in China.”

“Neat! Okay, time to focus. So these tests require a decent amount of studying.”

“Yeah. And they’re the minimum requirement to become a professor.”

“Okay. Well, that helps a bit. Scrimgeour, Amare, and Quirrell should definitely be on our list of suspects.”

“Add Snape, too.”

Hermione looked at him blankly. “He’s the Potions professor.”

“Yeah, but Percy said he’s been after the Defense job for years. Plus,” Ron lowered his voice, “Bill said Snape was working towards his _Grand Sorcerer_ title.”

“Grand Sorcerer? Isn’t Dumbledore one of those?”

“You bet -- and he’s got one in Transfiguration _and_ Alchemy. He’s bloody brilliant!”

“So is a Grand Sorcerer like a doctorate degree?”

“A what?” Ron asked in confusion.

“A doct-- nevermind, I forgot you know absolutely nothing about muggles. It’s a highly specialized degree.”

“Do you have to do a lot of studying to get one of those dokter things?”

“Loads.”

“Sounds similar. You’ve got to take a lot of exams and do a bunch of research to become a Grand Sorcerer.”

“Okay. So do you think it could be Dumbledore then?” Hermione asked, abruptly switching gears.

“No!” Ron responded immediately. “He’s Flamel’s friend. Why’d he want to steal from him?”

“Jealousy? Desire to become young again?”

“Okay, but -- ”

“Face it, Ron. This gives him the perfect excuse to steal it. He can pretend to protect it, then engineer some way to have it fall out of his grasp. Terribly inconvenient for Flamel, but Dumbledore can at least pretend he tried to save it.”

“Yeah, but there’s still a problem.”

“What?”

“It be _really_ obvious if Dumbledore suddenly turned young.”

Hermione swore.

“I don’t think it’s Dumbledore,” Ron said, “but we can keep him on the list if you want.”

Hermione harrumphed and muttered something about keeping an open mind. “What about Sprout and Burbage?”

Ron gaped at her. “ _Sprout_ and _Burbage_?”

“Yes, Ron. On muggle tele-- in muggle books, it’s the least likely people that are always the culprits.”

“Hermione, this isn’t a book.”

“I know that!”

Ron shifted. “Just going off of looks, I don’t think Sprout or Burbage could hurt a fly, let alone break into a Gringotts vault.”

“That’s why they could easily be the one who did it. No one would suspect them!”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Okay, Hermione.”

“We can do more research on them.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Stop patronizing me, Ron!”

“I’m not patronizing you!”

“Hmmph. So our list is Snape, Sprout, Quirrell, Dumbledore, and Burbage.”

“What about Babbling, Boyet, and Vector?”

Hermione thought for a moment. “Okay, we’ll add Vector and Boyet.”

“Not Babbling?”

“No. She’s too ancient.”

“What’s that go to do with anything?”

“There’s no way she could get in and out of Gringotts fast enough to break into a vault. Have you seen how long it takes her to walk down the Great Hall every morning?”

“It could be a disguise…”

“Trust me Ron, it’s not. She walks exactly like my Nan, and my Nan is ancient, too.”

“Okay, so what about McGonagall and Flitwick?”

“They don’t have the right skill set.”

“McGonagall is really smart...she studied at the Massachusetts Institute of Transfiguration. That’s like the crème of the crème.”

“Yeah, but you already said that Transfiguration isn’t involved in curse breaking.”

“I’m not an expert!”

“Well, we’re ruling her out for now. What’s up with Flitwick?”

“Don’t you know?”

“Know what?”

“He’s a world class dueler! He was a regular at the World Championships back when he was younger.”

“And?”

“He’s got to know a bit about fields other than Charms.”

“Fair enough. I’ll add him. You can go tell Harry. We need to research the professors more.”

“Why do I have to tell Harry?” Ron complained.

“Because I’ve got to finish my Charms homework. Now off you go. Spit-spot.”

Ron glowered at Hermione, who chuckled.

“I really do need to finish my homework.”

“Swot.”

“I bet yours isn’t even done.”

“Sure it is…”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Of course, Ronald,” she said sweetly.

“I hate you sometimes.”

“I know.”

“Oh, shut it.”

“Need I remind you that I did all the deducing?”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

“Fine, you helped a little bit. Now go!”

Ron stalked off, wondering not for the first time why he and Harry had befriended Hermione.

 

 


	18. Gossip Girls

 

_First Year Slytherin Dormitory_

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland_

_28 February, 1992_

 

Nearly a month had flown by and Hermione was no closer to finding out who wanted to steal the Stone than she was to finding a thirteenth use of dragon blood. She’d narrowed down the list a bit -- Vector was about as Ravenclaw as one could get and clearly had zero ambition in the immortality direction. Burbage was a nice lady who knew a lot more about muggles than any other witch Hermione had met, but she clearly did not have the brains to mastermind a Gringotts break-in. Flitwick, however, had risen higher on the suspect list when Hermione found out he not only had an R.A.T in Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Arithmancy, but he was also pursuing his Grand Sorcerer title in Charms.

Hermione drummed her fingers on her desk. It was Harry’s job to talk to Sprout and Dumbledore while Ron was supposed to talk to Snape and Quirrell. So far, neither of them had found out anything useful, although Ron did mention that Quirrell used to teach Muggle Studies. It seemed pretty suspicious to Hermione that he’d decided to switch careers, but, then again, midlife crises did exist. Perhaps Quirrell was suffering from one of those.

She stood and stretched, back popping slightly. She’d wander around the dungeons a bit -- maybe she’d have an epiphany about the ritual, the stone, or that gods-be-damned secret door -- then start her Potions homework.   

Hermione walked down the corridor to her dorm room, mind bursting with ideas for her Potions essay. Professor Snape had only given her an Exceeds Expectations last time, and Hermione really wanted to earn an Outstanding.

Much to Hermione’s dismay, the loud voices of her roommates filled the hallway. She sighed. While she got along well with Lily and Millicent, the other three girls only annoyed her. Tracey seemed kind of okay, at least, but Pansy and Daphne were both really stuck up and girly. Besides, all Pansy did was talk about how great and how important her father was. Hermione had done some research on the Wizengamot, so she knew Pansy’s family was fairly important, but she didn’t think they were as great as Pansy made them out to be.

“Anyway, Lily,” Pansy said snippily as Hermione opened the door, “are there any contracts in store for you?”

Lily ignored her. “Hello, Hermione. How’s your day been?”

“It’s been alright. Lots of homework, though. What are you guys talking about?”

“Nothing you’d understand,” Pansy cut in rudely.

“I’m sure I -- ”

“It’s _pureblood_ stuff,” Pansy said superiorly.

Hermione made a show of looking around the room. “Really? Why’s Tracey here, then?”

The girl in question blushed while Pansy spluttered.

“Didn’t your father advocate for educating muggleborns, Pansy?” Lily enquired.

Pansy turned an unflattering shade of puce.

“This would be an excellent opportunity to teach Hermione about some of our traditions, would it not?” Lily asked sweetly.

Hermione stifled a grin. Lily was easily the most Slytherin of the first year girls and it was always terrific to watch her in action. Pansy tried to play it cool, but she always fell flat, much to Hermione’s joy.  

“Now, Pansy, to answer the question you so rudely posed to me, I do not currently have any contracts.”

“What sort of contract?” Hermione asked curiously.

Lily rolled her eyes. “A marriage contract.”

“A _marriage_ contract?”

Pansy sniffed. “I told you a mud--muggleborn wouldn’t be able to understand.”

“I understand what a _marriage contract_ is, Pansy. In the normal -- _muggle_ \-- world, we don’t get married until we want to, and it’s almost never arranged.”

Pansy harrumphed. “Barbaric.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “No, not really.”

“It’s only the Blood Purists and the older Traditionalist families that arranged marriages anyway, Hermione,” Lily explained. “My family is Traditionalist, and while I’ll most likely marry someone who is politically convenient, it’ll be someone of my own choosing.”

Pansy scoffed. “There’s a reason my family is more powerful than yours, Lily.”

“Your family is _older_ than mine, Pansy, but not more powerful. Need I remind you that your father piggybacks on Lord Gaunt’s bills while mine constructs his own?”

Pansy opened her mouth to interrupt, but Lily ignored her, violet eyes flashing.

“Need I further remind you that my mother was formerly of the Noble House of Selwyn while yours was only of the Honorable House of Urquhart? You can shove all your Sacred Twenty-Eight rubbish right back up your arse where it came from. Furthermore, _I’m_ the heir of my House, not some girl ready to be married off like chattel. Now, who did your father arrange you to marry?”

“Nothing is certain yet…”

Lily smirked at Hermione, who smirked back.

“But my father is thinking of approaching the Malfoys or the Notts…”

“Reaching high, isn’t he?”

“Shut it.”

“I’m just stating fact…”

“You know,” Pansy stated loudly, “I think it’s getting a bit stuffy in here for my tastes. Daphne, Tracey, let’s go.”

The trio stalked off, leaving Lily, Millicent, and Hermione alone.

“Thought they’d never leave,” Millicent commented.

Lily chuckled. “You and me both.”

“So,” Millicent began tentatively, “does your father really have no plans regarding your marriage?”

“Well...he has some ideas.”

“Ooh, do tell!”

“Father has his eyes set on something more...global. He’s been talking with the Morozovs.”

Millicent’s eyes widened. “You’re serious?”

“Yes. The Krums are another possibility, but the Morozovs are still in Russia and therefore closer to the Dolohovs.”

Millicent sucked in a breath. “You do know the Dolohovs are…”

“Yes.”

Hermione looked back and forth between the two of them, feeling thoroughly lost. “The Dolohovs are what?”

“Dangerous,” Millicent whispered.  “My mother was one -- her older cousin is the current tsar -- and the stories she tells are chilling.”

“Tsar? “ Hermione asked. “Do they not have a Parliament like we have here?”

“No. Wizarding Russia has always been ruled by tsars. The Dolohovs have only ruled for the past three generations.”

“Who ruled before them?”

“The Romanovs. They ruled for over three _hundred_ years after they took over from the Rurik dynasty.

“What happened to them?” Hermione asked, having the feeling she wouldn’t like the answer. The Muggle Romanovs had been brutally murdered, and she had a feeling the Wizarding ones suffered a similar fate.

“They were murdered.”

“ _Murdered?_ Who did it?”

“Nobody knows,” Millicent said nervously.

“What?”  
“Nobody knows for sure,” Lily amended. “Most believe Nikolay Dolohov -- the first Dolohov tsar -- arranged the deaths of Tsar Alexei III Romanov, the tsar’s wife, Elena Romanova, and the tsarevich, Yulian Romanov. No one can prove it though.”

Hermione was shocked. “And your father wants you to marry into this family?”

“They’re very powerful,” Lily said, stifling a yawn. “They’ve intermarried with the other dominant Russian families, namely the Morozovs and the Petrovs. Recently, they’ve been expanding abroad. The current tsar married a Delacour -- very wealthy family in France -- and one of the minor branch members married a Krum -- minor nobility from Bulgaria, but very sympathetic to the Russian tsars. Father of course would love if I could marry the tsarevich, Eduard, but that would spell the end of our House unless the second son could take my surname. I think I’d end up marrying a second son of one of the minor branches -- maybe the younger of the Krum brothers or one of the Morozovs -- that way they’d be more likely to take my surname.

“Anyway, enough of me rambling. Millicent, do you have any plans in place?”

Millicent shrugged. “I don’t know yet. Mother always said it was fortunate I got her brains and my father’s face. If I was any prettier, the House would almost definitely have a plan in place. The current tsarevich is my cousin, after all, and after my other cousin, Antonin, went off the deep end a bit, my brother could become tsar if anything were to happen to Eduard.”

“So essentially the number of murder attempts on your cousin directly correlates to your likelihood of an arranged marriage.”

“Unfortunately.”

Lily quirked an eyebrow. “Wow. On that happy note, I’m tired and going to bed now.”

“Same,” Millicent said, crawling between her sheets and closing the bed curtains as if they hadn’t just been talking about murder most foul.

“‘Night, Hermione.”

“‘Night, Hermione.”

“G’night, Millicent, Lily,” Hermione responded automatically, mind reeling. She couldn’t believe how casually her two friends had dismissed _murder_.

Hermione sat down heavily on her bed.

Just what kind of world was she living in?

* * *

 

_Entrance Hall_

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland_

_23 March 1992_

 

“Percy! Percy Weasley!” Hermione called across the hall.

The most pompous Weasley turned around. “Yes? Granger, is it?”

“Yes. I was wondering if I could ask you a question.”

Percy looked delighted that someone genuinely wanted to talk to him. “Certainly!”

“What’s your opinion on Professor Quirrell?”

“I think he’s a very qualified instructor. Why do you ask?”

“I was just curious -- especially since he use to teach Muggle Studies. I feel like he’d be different teaching DADA.”

“Hmm. Now that you mention it, I suppose he is a bit different. Not terribly so, but a bit. He seems a lot more confident this year -- I think the sabbatical did him good. At any rate, he’s a far better professor than the one we had last year.”

“That’s good.”

“Did you have another question?” Percy asked, looking somewhat flummoxed.

Hermione pasted on her best innocent first year smile. “No -- thanks for your help.”

“Not a problem.”

Percy bustled away, leaving Hermione feeling no more enlightened than she had before.

She’d been hoping for a breakthrough. She’d been hoping that Quirrell’d had a mysteriously massive personality transplant and would clearly be the suspect. Now, she was still left with the same four: Sprout, Snape, Quirrell, and Dumbledore. Unfortunately, it seemed like the best they were going to be able to do was conduct careful and subtle surveillance. With any luck, one of the four would slip up and Hermione would be able to catch them in the act.

Hermione sighed. Fat chance of that happening, especially with Dumbledore and Sprout. The Headmaster was clearly far more intelligent than they were, and if his scheme was even half as complicated as Hermione expected it was, they were in big trouble. The same thing applied to Sprout. If the seemingly kindly Herbology professor was trying to steal the Stone, Hermione was going to run far away from Hogwarts as fast as she could.

* * *

 

_Empty Classroom_

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland_

_23 March 1992_

 

“I think we need to conduct better surveillance,” Hermione said earnestly. “We’re left with the same four we’ve had for the past couple of months. We need some sort of breakthrough -- literally anything.”

Harry and Ron nodded halfheartedly.

“Why aren’t you guys  interested?” Hermione demanded. “I thought you cared about this?”

Ron made a placating gesture. “Look, we’ve had no leads for over a month…”

“Did either of you ever talk to the professors?”  
“Well, no --” Harry began.

“That’s the problem. How can we get leads if you haven’t talked to anyone?”  
“Er…”

“Exactly.”

“I talked to Quirrell a bit,” Ron cut in. “He seemed alright. A lot more suave than in class, to be honest.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I feel like he got more out of the conversation than I did.”

Hermione leaned forward excitedly. “Really? How so?”

“I was asking him about why he ended up switching to teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts instead of Muggle Studies, and he talked a bit about his travels to Albania, then the Zambian prince he won the turban from. Then he started talking about old magic -- ritual stuff, mainly -- apparently that’s big among the Zambian shamans. I wasn’t really sure what to make out of that, but then he started hinting at _blood magic_ stuff, and I thought he might be trying to sound out how open I was to stuff like that, but I didn’t know why…”

“That’s weird.”

“I know.”

“Isn’t blood magic illegal?”

Ron shrugged. “Some forms, yes. Others, no.”

“So that gives us nothing.”

“Pretty much. Except that blood magic used in conjunction with old ritual magic can potentially have nasty consequences...and if Quirrell’s interested in _that_ , then we have a serious problem on our hands.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Shite.”

“Yeah. He brought up you and Hermione as well.”

“Really? What’d he want to know.”

“He was just wondering how you guys were settling into Slytherin. You know, with the reputation for Blood Purist and Traditionalist mania.”

“What’d you say?”

“I said that Malfoy and Parkinson were giving you guys a bit of a hard time, but that everyone else was fine.”  

“Okay. I talked to your brother today, Ron.”

“Which one?”

“Percy.”

“Ew, why’d you talk to him?”

“I wanted to ask him about Quirrell.”

“And?”

“I was trying to figure out if maybe he’d changed dramatically since his sabbatical.”

“Did he?”

“Not really,” Hermione admitted. “Percy said Quirrell was a bit more confident, but other than that he was pretty much the same.”

“But interested in an entirely new field.”

“Yes.”

“Huh.”

“Well, that might make him a tiny bit more suspicious, but not so much more than, say, Snape.”

“I like Professor Snape!”

“I’m not saying he’s _bad_ , just suspicious.”

“...I’ll give you that.”

“I know. He’s the quintessential Slytherin. It’s almost a one hundred percent guarantee that we only see what he wants us to see.”

“And he fits almost every villain cliché ever,” Harry piped up.

“That’s true, too.”

“What?” Ron asked in confusion.

“Don’t worry about it, Ron. It’s a muggle thing,” Hermione said quickly. “ _Anyway_ , you guys need to talk to your professors.”

“Okay.”

“No, really, it’s very important! Especially Sprout, Harry. There’s no way anyone could be that nice.”

“Okay.”

“Do it.”

“I will!”

“Good. Report back when you have more information.”

“Ay ay, captain.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “See that you do. We have a mystery to solve.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Big thanks to my fantastic betas for helping get this chapter into shape! Another thanks to all of those who’ve left comments on the past two chapters -- you guys help make my day :)


	19. The Gauntlet

# 

 

_ Defense Against the Dark Arts Classroom _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 11 June 1992 _

 

Harry furiously scribbled down answers on his exam paper, all the while trying to ignore the pounding ache in his scar. It had been hurting more and more over the past month, and for some reason, it especially hurt during Defense Against the Dark Arts. Harry had no idea why. Hermione had said something about his olfactory senses being irritated, but Harry had a feeling that wasn’t the case. He had a cursed scar...that sort of thing wouldn’t be affected by allergies.

Harry turned his mind back to the exam at hand. 

**22) Explain, in words or with diagrams, how to send red sparks into the air.**

Harry thought for a moment, then quickly described the wand motion and the incantation next to a tiny stick figure wizard. He glanced at the clock -- only twenty minutes left! -- then skimmed the rest of the questions.

**23) List three advantages and three disadvantages of the Smokescreen Spell. Explain why this spell would be useful or harmful in a duel.**

**24) The** **_Lumos_ ** **, or Wand Lighting Charm, is one of the first and most simple charms we learned in this class. Write a paragraph explaining how** **_Lumos_ ** **can be used defensively against a magical creature or another wizard.**

**25) Describe four out of the five magical creatures listed: doxies, bowtruckles, imps, hags, firecrabs. Comment on why one would be wise to avoid each of the four creatures you described.**

Harry took a deep breath. He could do this. Desperately ignoring the pain in his scar, Harry answered the remaining questions, finishing just before the hourglass ran out. Breathing a sigh of relief, Harry turned his paper in, slung his bookbag over his shoulder, and caught up with Ron in the corridor. 

“How’d you think the exam went?”

Harry shrugged. “I thought it was fine. Scar hurts, though.”

“Still?”

“Yeah. More than before, too.”

“Didn’t you go to Madame Pomfrey?” Ron asked.

“Kind of?”

“What do you mean, kind of?”  
“I told her I had a headache…”

“Harry! Cursed scars are very different from headaches!” 

“Yeah… well, it could just be stress…”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Why’s Harry ridiculous?” Hermione asked from behind them. 

Harry jumped. “Hermione! Didn’t see you there! What’d you think of the exam?”

“It was very straightforward. Ron, why’s Harry ridiculous?”

“He told Pomfrey he had a  _ headache _ .”

“Well, he does, doesn’t he?”

“Headaches caused by  _ cursed scars _ are very different from normal  _ headaches _ .” 

“Oh. So are we taking Harry to the Hospital Wing now then?”

“No!” Harry said emphatically. “I’m fine, really. Plus what’s the point now? Exams are over. Why don’t we just go out onto the grounds and relax a bit?”

“Fine...but if your scar hurts anymore, you’re going to the Hospital Wing right away!” 

“Okay, okay.” 

Hermione and Ron were seemingly pleased, and Harry heaved an internal sigh of relief. He hated being fussed over. 

They trooped down the stairs and out through the Entrance Hall into the sunshine. Settling under one of the many trees surrounding the Black Lake, Harry stretched out and happily watched the Giant Squid wave its tentacles around while Gryffindors dared each other to poke it.

“I’ve been thinking,” Hermione began.

Harry groaned. Nothing good ever happened after Hermione had been  _ thinking _ .

“Don’t make that sound, Harry. Anyway -- ” 

“Do we want to know what this is?” Ron asked.

“Shut it, Ron.  _ Anyway _ , what I’ve been thinking is that if someone was going to try to steal the Stone, they’d probably try to do it tonight.”

“Why?” Harry asked, feeling baffled. 

“Several reasons.” Hermione steepled her fingers. “One: everyone has just finished exams and is tired. Two: people will have assumed that since the Stone was safe this long, it’ll remain safe for the rest of the year. Three: the Headmaster just left the grounds.”

“ _ What? _ ”

“See, there he goes.” Hermione pointed, and Harry could just make out the Headmaster’s brilliant orange robes vanishing through the gates. 

“That’s a problem.”

“I know. That’s why I brought it up. There is one good thing though.”

“What?”

“Dumbledore probably isn’t trying to steal the Stone.”

“I guess that’s helpful,” Harry said doubtfully. “So what do we do?”  
“We could try to steal it first,” Ron suggested. 

“That’s dum -- actually not a terrible idea, Ron. Problem is, I doubt we could get up to the third floor corridor and past the dog. Speaking of which...oh  _ shite. _ ” 

“What?”

“ _ Hagrid. _ ”

“Hagrid? What about Hagrid?” 

“Do you remember how he spilled all the information to us about Fluffy and Nicolas Flamel?”

“Uh huh…”

“Who else do you think he’s told? If a couple of first years could figure it out, imagine what one of our three could do…”

Ron swore. 

“You shouldn’t say things like that, Ron.”

“Wha -- ”

“Shh. I’m thinking we should talk to him again.”

“Why?” 

“To get more information, of course.”

Harry furrowed his brow. “You think you can get more information?”

Hermione stared at him. “Harry, Hagrid told you practically everything about Fluffy and Nicolas Flamel without even being  _ prompted _ .” 

“Right,” Harry said awkwardly. “Er, forget I said anything.” 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Okay, so off to Hagrid’s then?”

“What? We’re going now?”  
“Yes, Ron, we’re going now. The attack will probably happen _today_. There’s no time to waste!” 

Hermione marched off across the grounds, and after exchanging a look with Ron, Harry followed. 

“Hello, Hagrid!” Hermione said cheerfully. 

The Groundskeeper looked up from shelling peanuts. “‘Ello there Hermione, Harry, Ron. How are yeh doing?”

“Done with exams, thankfully.”

“Done with yer firs’ year already, then? Yeh’re all growin’ up too fast, yeh know.” 

“So,” Hermione began boldly, “how’s Fluffy doing?” 

Much to Harry’s surprise, Hagrid’s face broke into a grin. “He’s doin’ good. Doesn’t like bein’ cooped up much, but he’ll get ta take some nice walks once school lets out...Don’t tell anyone I said tha’ though…”

Hermione smiled. “Of course not!” 

Silence hung in the air, then Ron spoke up. “What do you think of Professor Dumbledore, Hagrid?” 

Hagrid settled deeper into his chair. “He’s a great man, Dumbledore. Gave me this job when I had next to nothin’ yeh know.”

“Have you know him for a long time, then?”

“‘Bout fifty years, I think. Known him since I was a student here.” 

Hermione cast Ron a sidelong look. “He must trust you a lot, since he’s known you so long.” 

Hagrid blushed slightly. “Yeah, I suppose he does, doesn’ he? I took Harry from Godric Hollow to his relatives’ house the night You-Know-Who attacked.” 

“Really!?” Harry asked. 

“Yep. On a flyin’ motorbike, too.”

“I think I remember that!” Harry said excitedly. “I’ve had dreams about a flying motorbike!” 

“I can’ believe yeh remember that!”

The conversation collapsed into happy silence as Hermione readied the proverbial knife. 

“Other than you, who do you think the Headmaster trusts enough to protect the Philosopher’s Stone?” 

“Oh, plen’y of staff members...let’s see, there’s Professor McGonagall, Flitwick, Quirrell, Sprout, an’ Snape,” Hagrid said, ticking them off on his fingers. “Then there’s Professor Dumbledore himself.” Hagrid’s brow suddenly furrowed. “Wait...how do you lot know about the Stone?” 

“Er, nevermind that,” Hermione said quickly. “We’ve got to be off. Nice talking to you, Hagrid!” 

They practically sprinted off, leaving Hagrid fuming.

* * *

 

_ Front Lawn _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 11 June 1992 _

 

“So we know it’s got to be Sprout, Snape, or Quirrell,” Hermione said once they were a goodly distance from Hagrid’s hut. “Dumbledore’s been called away, so it’s probably not him. Personally, I’m betting on Sprout.”

Harry frowned. “I really don’t think it’s Sprout.”

“Why?”

“She’s too nice!”

“That’s exactly my point! There’s no way someone can actually be that nice! Plus,

imagine how easy it would be for her to ferret information out of the other professors. None of them would suspect her in the slightest!” 

“Yeah...but what about Snape? He’s a Slytherin. He knows how to manipulate people.”

“Wasn’t Quirrell a Ravenclaw?” Ron asked. “He’d know how to outsmart people.”

“True, but…”

“Give it up, Hermione. There’s no way we’re going to figure it out for sure. We don’t

have enough information.”

“Fine. But you guys agree that someone’s going to try to steal the Stone tonight.”

“I mean, it seems likely…”

“What do we want to do about it? Ron’s idea of trying to steal it first actually wasn’t so bad.” 

Harry bit his lip. “But what if we’re wrong?”

Hermione looked at him -- really looked at him. “We’re not wrong. Trust me.” 

“...okay.” 

“We need a plan.” 

“We could sneak out after curfew,” Ron suggested. “Harry has the Cloak.” 

“It’ll be suspicious if all of us sneak out at once, though,” Harry said. “We should find somewhere to meet up.” 

“The problem is, if someone finds us, then the whole plan falls to pieces.”

“Not if we plan carefully enough,” Harry argued. “I’ve read so many books -- whenever the hero and his friends tried to sneak out together, the plan failed. Horribly. We’ve got to be clever about this. We’re in Slytherin for a reason, after all.” 

“So you want us to hide, then meet up?” Ron asked.

Harry shook his head. “No. We’ve got to do things that aren’t vastly different from our normal behavior. Hermione, you could go to the library -- you’ve gotten back to the common room late enough times that it won’t be suspicious. Ron, you could go to the Owlery -- maybe send a letter to Bill or Charlie.”

“What about you?”

“I have the Cloak. I can just sneak out if I need to. Plus, I can always say I’m looking for one of you. It wouldn’t be a lie, either.” 

“Okay. Where would we meet up, though?” 

Harry thought for a moment. “You know the painting of William Prince signing the charter for the Council of Lords on the second floor? There’s an alcove just beyond there with no portraits in it that we could meet in.”

“Sounds fair…”

“You on board, Ron?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. I’ll see you guys then. Try to get there right at curfew.”

* * *

 

_ Small Second Floor Alcove _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 11 June 1992 _

 

“I’m here,” Harry whispered, throwing off the Cloak. 

Ron jumped. “Gee, Harry. Don’t  _ do _ that.”

Hermione grinned.

“Under the Cloak, now. Quickly, before a professor walks by!” 

They huddled together, and slowly began to make their way towards the third floor corridor on the right hand side. Luck was on their side, and they made it all the way to the corridor without seeing any professors, Filch, or Mrs. Norris. All too soon, Harry felt, the door to the forbidden corridor loomed in front of them. Hermione snaked her wand out from under the Cloak.

“ _ Alohamora! _ ” 

The locked clicked, and they quickly shuffled inside. Much to Harry’s surprise, they were greeted not by the growls of Fluffy, but instead by the soft sounds of a harp mixed with rumbling snores. 

Harry looked at Fluffy in confusion. “He’s asleep?” 

“Of course he is! Music puts cerberi to sleep.” 

“How do you know that?”

“I  _ read _ .”

“...this means we have a problem,” Ron began slowly. “Someone must have already gone through the trapdoor.”

“ _ Shite. _ ”

“Good to know your intuition’s on track, Hermione,” Harry said nervously. 

“This is the one thing I’d actually like to be wrong about,” Hermione replied stiffly. “We should probably head through the trapdoor before the music charm wears off.” 

Harry stuffed the Cloak into his jeans pocket -- for a large object it folded up surprisingly small -- and headed over to the trapdoor. 

“Who wants to do the honors?” Hermione asked.

Ron seized the metal ring, and swung it open. The cool smell of damp filled the air, and Harry peered over the edge, only to see darkness. 

“I wonder how far down it goes,” he commented.

“ _ Hyacinthum Flamma, _ ” Hermione incanted, producing a gout of bluebell flames over the trapdoor. “ _ Wingardium Demittoso! _ ”

The flames floated downwards, casting light onto the walls of the shaft. 

“Looks like there’s something down there,” Hermione remarked, extinguishing the flames. “Some sort of plant, maybe. And it doesn’t look too far. We should be fine to jump.”

“Why can’t we just levitate each other down?” Ron asked. 

“You can’t levitate people, Ron. Don’t you remember how I tried that with Longbottom during our first flying lesson? I levitated his robes, instead.”

“What about that de-levitation spell you just did? Will that work?” 

“No.”

Silence hung in the air. 

“Guys...the harp stopped playing…” 

Fluffy stirred.

“Jump!” Hermione shouted, panicking.

They scrambled through the trapdoor, air rushing by them until they landed with a soft thump. 

“Thank goodness that was a soft landing,” Ron commented. “Wonder what it is though…”

“Seems plant-y,” said Harry. 

“Well, duh! I wish we could see better…” 

Harry could practically hear Ron roll his eyes.

“Do you have wands or not?  _ Lumos! _ ” 

“ _ Lumos! _ ”

“ _ Lumos! _ ”

“Definitely a plant,” Harry stated, poking the tentacle-like tendrils beginning to wrap around him.

“Thanks for your contribution, Lord Obvious. This is definitely a plant. In fact…”

“Buggering  _ shite! _ ” Ron practically shouted. “It’s Devil’s Snare!” 

“Devil’s Snare...I know I’ve read about Devil’s Snare!”

“It likes dampness and the dark. Quick, Hermione, do the flame spell!”

“ _ HYACINTHUM FLAMMA! _ ” 

Bluebell flames burst from the tip of Hermione’s wand, and the Devil’s Snare rapidly shrunk away into the shadows. 

Harry released a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Well, that’s one obstacle down.”

Ron nodded uneasily. “Yeah. Sprout’s, too. Seemed a bit simple, in my opinion.” 

“I was thinking the same thing...be on your guard in case there’s something more up

ahead. If there’s Venomous Tentacula, we’ll be in serious trouble.” 

Holding their wands aloft, they carefully made their way down the corridor. 

“Everything looks clear,” Hermione said. 

“Do you reckon the door is booby trapped?” Harry asked nervously. In his comic books, the doors were  _ always _ booby trapped. 

Hermione bit her lip. “I hope not. We have no way of finding out, and we need to pass through this door to continue. Just...have your wand at the ready. Three, two, one.”

She flung the door open, and Harry braced himself. “Uh, nothing’s attacking us…”

“Don’t jinx it, Harry.”

“Jinx what?”

“It’s a Muggle turn of phrase, Ron. Don’t worry about it. Say, are those birds?”

Harry squinted. “Dunno. I think they look a little like keys.” 

“Think they’ll attack us?”

“Probably. One of us should make a run for the door.” 

“Okay. Ron, you go.”

“Why me?”

“You’ve got the longest legs,” Hermione said matter of factly. “You can move the quickest.”

“Fine,” Ron grumbled. “If these key-birds attack me, you owe me a hundred Chocolate Frogs.” 

“Well, what are you waiting for? Go on.”

Ron took a deep breath, then made a mad dash to the other side of the chamber. Surprisingly,  the key-birds kept fluttering around. 

“The door’s locked!” Ron shouted.

“Try unlocking it!”

“ _ Alohomora! _ ” Ron rattled the handle. “It didn’t work!” 

Hermione strode across the room. “Let me try another spell.  _ Reserare! _ ”

“That didn’t work either.”

“ _ Patefio! _ ”

“Still nothing. We probably have to solve the puzzle to get out of here...unless you know a Grand Sorcerer level Unlocking Charm.” 

“I don’t. I -- ” 

“Guys, I found brooms!” Harry shouted, interrupting from the other side of the chamber. “I think we need to catch the right key-bird.” 

Hermione studied the lock for a moment. “We’re looking for an old-fashioned silver key. It’s probably large -- ”

“There!” Harry said excitedly, “it’s the one with the bent blue wing.” He eagerly swung a leg over one of the brooms. “Come on, let’s go catch it!” 

Ron and Hermione made their way over, and pretty soon they were airborne. 

“Okay,” Harry began, “Here’s what I’m thinking we’ll do. I’ll dive down at the key from above, Hermione will corner from the left, and Ron from the right. We’ll try to get it into a corner so we can catch it easily. Does everyone have a line of sight on the key-bird?” Hermione and Ron nodded. “Okay, get into position...on my count...three...two...one…” Harry dove, air rippling through his hair as his eyes honed in on the key-bird. He was distantly aware of Ron and Hermione closing in in a pincer-like motion as he stretched his hand out...so close, and…

Fingers closed on cool metal and fluffy wings. Harry pumped his fist. “YES!” 

“You’ve caught it?”

“Uh huh. You reckon this was Flitwick’s work?”

“Most likely.” 

“So that means we have Snape, Quirrell, McGonagall, and Dumbledore left.”

“Exactly.”

They landed by the door and inserted the key-bird into the lock with a slight click. The door creaked open, and they stared into the gloom. 

“Wonder what’s next?”

“I don’t know. We should bring the brooms, though, just in case.” 

Broom in hand, Harry followed Ron and Hermione through the door. The light was dim in the chamber, and Harry could only make out vague impressions of a high ceiling and large shadowy figures. He shivered. They looked sinister. 

The door swung shut behind them, and Harry gulped as flames appeared in the brackets around the room. 

The challenge was a chessboard. A giant chessboard.

“Looks like we’ve found McGonagall’s challenge,” Hermione remarked drily. “Should be right up your alley, Ron.” 

The redhead in question looked up from studying the board. “Yeah...I’m pretty sure we’ll need to play our way across the chamber. Just in case we don’t, though, Harry, can you try hopping on a broom?” 

“Sure.” 

Harry swung a leg over the broom and kicked off the ground. 

“Okay, now try flying across the board.” 

Harry cautiously flew forward, expecting something to stop him at any moment. The white chess pieces on the other side of the board glared menacingly at him, and he was fairly certain they were tracking his motions. 

“Felt anything odd yet, Harry?”

“No...I think the pieces are watching me, though…” 

“Well, keep going, then. Be careful…”

Harry slowly flew forward, nearly over the white pawns. Then -- 

_ THUNK.  _

“Ow!”

“Are you okay, Harry?” 

“Yeah...I’m fine. It’s like there’s an invisible wall here, though. I don’t think we’re going to be able to fly across.”

“Darn. It was worth a go, at least. Come on back.” 

Harry did, landing lightly behind the black pieces. “So, what’s the plan?”

Ron chuckled nervously. “I thought that much was obvious. We’ve got to play our way across the board. I think,” Ron began, walking up and down the row, “we’ve got to become chessmen.”

“ _ Chessmen? _ ”

“Yeah,” Ron replied distractedly, placing his hand on the black horse’s flank. The piece immediately sprang to life, with the horse pawing at the ground, and the knight swiveling its head to stare at Ron. “Pardon me...do we need to join you to get across the board?” 

The knight nodded.

“Excellent.” Ron turned to face them. “Look, I don’t want to offend either of you, but I’m pretty sure I’m the best at chess…”

Harry nodded fervently, while Hermione pursed her lips slightly. “We’re not offended,” she said quickly. “Just get on with your plan.” 

“Alright,” Ron started, tapping his chin thoughtfully, “Harry, you take the place of that bishop, and Hermione, you take the place of the castle next to him.” 

“What about you?”

“I’m going to be a knight.” 

The chessmen must have been paying attention -- Harry shuddered at the implications of that -- because at Ron’s words a bishop, a castle, and a knight walked off the board, leaving three empty squares for them to take. 

Harry clutched his broom nervously. What would happen if they lost? 

“White plays first in chess,” Ron said, “Look...oh Merlin.”

“What?”  
“They’re attempting the Queen’s Gambit.” 

“What’s that?”

“Don’t you mind...just let me focus on the game.” 

With military-like precision, Ron barked out orders. “Pawn to d4.” 

White advanced another pawn.

“Let’s see how they react to the Albin Countergambit,” Ron mused. “Pawn to c4!”

The game began in earnest, and soon bits of marble littered the board. Ron played like a demon, wiping out white pieces like they were dominos. His eyes roved the board as he weighed each and every move. 

“Bloody buggering hell!” 

“What is it, Ron?” Hermione asked, sounding uncharacteristically anxious.

“I’ve got to be taken.”

“ _ What? _ ”

“I was too focused on getting the checkmate. With any luck, the white queen will only strike the horse, leaving me free to escape on the broom. If not, Harry, all you’ll need to do is move three spaces along the left diagonal, and you’ll be able to checkmate the king.”

Harry cast a nervous glance at his friend. “But Ron…”

“Do you want to stop the thief or not?” Ron demanded. “They’ve already got a head start

on us.  Do you really want to make it more?”

Harry sighed. “Go on, then.” 

“Don’t wait around for me, if I’m taken,” Ron said before moving three spaces to the right and one space forward. He stood for a moment, precariously balanced on top of the horse, broom in hand before the white queen pounced. Her stone arm crashed down, down, down, and at the very last moment, Ron kicked off the horse and rocketed into the air. 

The crushed horse was dragged to the side of the board while Ron hovered nervously in the air. 

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah -- I think I’ll have a nasty bruise on my ankle, though. Harry, checkmate the king.” 

Harry moved three spaces diagonally to the left. “Checkmate.” 

The white king took off his crown and threw it at Harry’s feet. The chessmen parted and bowed, leaving a passage to the door. 

“Alright, this should be either Snape or Quirrell’s obstacle,” Hermione said, already back to business. “Dumbledore’s is probably the last. Are you guys ready?” 

Harry and Ron nodded.

“Let’s go.” 

They pushed the door open and were immediately assaulted by the most disgusting smell -- something better rotting rubbish, and a public toilet that hadn’t been cleaned in a  _ very _ long time. Eyes watering, Harry pulled his robes over his nose, blanching slightly at the cause of the smell. On the floor laid an enormous mountain troll, one far larger than the one that’d broken into the castle. It had a huge bloody lump on its forehead and didn’t look like it was moving any time soon. 

“I suppose that was Quirrell’s,” Hermione said, voice muffled slightly by her robes. “Are you guys ready to face Snape’s?”  
Harry nodded immediately, all too eager to get out of the stench. They quickly made their way over to the door, and pulled it open to reveal a table with seven oddly shaped bottles in a line. They stepped over the threshold, and immediately violet flames sprang up behind them. At the same instant, black flames shot up in the doorway leading onwards, effectively trapping them. 

“There’s a scroll of parchment on the table!” 

They hurried over, Harry and Ron looking over Hermione’s shoulder to read. It was a long poem -- no, riddle -- and Harry couldn’t make head or tails of it. 

Hermione and Ron grinned, making Harry feel completely and utterly baffled. Weren’t

they confused, too? 

“This is brilliant! This isn’t magic -- it’s logic!” 

“Er, that’s great, but…” 

“I’ve got the answer! The smallest bottle will get us through the black fire -- towards the Stone. The round one will get us back through the violet fire.” 

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” 

Harry eyed the small bottle. “It only looks like there’s enough for one person.” 

“Right now there’s only enough for one person.”

“What do you mean?”

“We know someone already went through, yet the bottle is full again. There’s got to be some sort of refill mechanism.” 

“Okay, but how do we figure that out?” 

“We test it.”

“How?”

“Easy -- we’ll empty out one of the nettle wine bottles and see if it refills.” With that, Hermione seized the tall twisty bottle and proceeded to dump the contents on the floor.

“What now?”

Hermione set the bottle back on the table. “We wait.” 

For several heartbeats, nothing happened. Ron frowned. “I don’t --” 

“Look!” 

To Harry’s great amazement, the bottle was full again. 

“Well, that solves that problem,” Hermione said. “All we need to do is Transfigure something to hold the black flames potion then wait for the bottle to refill.” 

“Don’t we need two things to hold the black flames potion?”

“No.”

“No?”

“One of us needs to go back and get help. Contact Dumbledore or McGonagall if you have to. Ron, you’ve been limping since the chess game...you ought to go back.”

“What?” Ron spluttered. “Why? I’m not backing down!” 

“Ron, you’re hurt, and the only other person who can fly well. Plus if you have to play across the chess room again, you’re the only one who can do it.”

Ron sighed. “Okay.” 

“Does anyone have something I can Transfigure into a cup?”

“I think I’ve got a spare bit of parchment...hang on…” Ron pulled a grubby piece of parchment out of his robes’ pocket. “Will this do?”

“Yeah. Just give me a moment…” Hermione concentrated, tongue poking out slightly from the corner of her mouth. “ _ Transmutarre! _ ” 

The parchment bubbled, and a crude cup-bowl formed. 

“That’ll do, I suppose. Ron, you should go now so you have a bit of a head start on us. Harry, I’ll hide under the Cloak when we go through the flames.”

“Won’t it get burned?” Harry asked worriedly.

“I don’t think so...otherwise all fabric would burn and we’d end up naked on the other side. I have a feeling Professor Snape is classier than that.”

Harry blanched. “I sure hope so.” 

“Good luck, Ron.” 

“Thanks.” Ron took a long drink from the round bottle and shuddered. 

“It’s not poison, is it?” Harry asked anxiously.

“No, not at all...it’s like ice, though.”

“Go on, before wears off!” 

Ron turned and walked straight through the violet fire. 

“And then there were two,” Harry said, pulling the Cloak from his pocket and tossing it to Hermione. “I’ll just pour the black flames potion into the cup…” 

The potion bubbled out, and moments later the bottle refilled itself. 

“You ready?”

Hermione pulled the Cloak most of the way on, leaving only her head exposed. “Ready as I’ll ever be. On three?”

“On three.”

“One, two, three.”

Harry swallowed to contents of the small bottle and shivered. It did feel like his body had suddenly been encased by ice. 

“Let’s go.”

Harry walked through the flames, Hermione a couple steps behind him. For a terrifying moment, all he could see was black fire, then, he as on the other side, in the final chamber. 

Unsurprisingly, there was already someone there -- it wasn’t Snape. It wasn’t Dumbledore. It wasn’t even Sprout.

It was Quirrell.

“Good evening, Professor,” Harry said cheerfully. “Fancy meeting you here.” 

Quirrell sneered, and Harry was disturbed to find his professor’s eyes were blood red. “Surprised to find me here, Potter?”

“No, not really,” Harry said, projecting a nonchalant air that he  _ definitely _ didn’t feel.

“No?”

“No.” 

“Pray tell me why.”

Harry took a deep breath. Keep the villain talking. Stall. Give Ron more time to get back through the trapdoor. “We suspected it.” 

“ _ We _ ?”

“My friends and I. Someone tried to steal something from Gringotts, then we, er, accidentally found out about the three-headed dog, and after a couple conversations with Hagrid, it was pretty clear what was being hidden and why.” 

A shrewd look passed over Quirrell’s face. “And how did you know who wanted to take it?”

“Well, we figured that the same person who tried to steal the Stone from Gringotts would try to take it from Hogwarts. From there, it was the process of elimination as to who it was. You weren’t terribly high on the list, actually.”

“Really.”

“Yeah. The others seemed more suspicious. Plus you saved everyone from the troll on Samhain. You could have used it as a distraction, but you didn’t.”

“Oh, but I did. After I selflessly saved all your little lives, who would believe that Professor Quirrell was the bad guy?” He paced for a moment. “Who were the other suspects?”

“Dumbledore, Snape, and Sprout.” 

Quirrell frowned. “Dumbledore and Severus I can see, but Sprout?”

“Hermione was convinced. She thought Sprout was too nice.”

Quirrell threw back his head and laughed -- it wasn’t his normal chuckle, though, it was a high, cold laugh that sent shivers down Harry’s spine. 

“Ah, the delusions of the young… you did well, Potter, just not well enough.” 

“Sir?”

Quirrell turned away from him to face the giant mirror. With a jolt, Harry recognized it as the Mirror Erised. “You were missing several key pieces of information… pity.” 

Harry’s mind spun. “Does this have anything to do with why your eyes are red now?” he asked, desperately playing for time. 

Quirrell spun. “It has  _ everything _ to do with it...and I suppose I can tell you, too, since I’m planning on killing you tonight.” He snapped his fingers and ropes sprang out of thin air to wrap themselves tightly around Harry. 

“Two years ago,” he began, “a foolish young man by the name of Quirinus Quirrell made his way across the Continent in search of knowledge. Then, he made a terrible, terrible mistake. He found me.” Not-Quirrell smiled, and it wasn’t a nice smile; rather, it was how a tiger bared its teeth before going in for a kill. “I was easily able to convince him to help me. The idiot thought I would just be along for the ride, but I quickly realized that taking full possession of the man was the only true way forward. I took control of his body and destroyed his mind, making room for my own. And now I am here…”

“Who are you?”

“Lord Voldemort, naturally.” 

Harry felt sick to his stomach.  _ Lord Voldemort?  _ He truly was going to die, right here, right now in this very chamber…

“Don’t you know anything, Potter, or has that fool Dumbledore spent too much time coddling you? Don’t answer that. This mirror is the key to finding the Stone,” Lord Voldemort mused, pacing in front of it. “Trust Dumbledore to come up with something like this...but the old man is in London...I’ll be far away by the time he gets back…”

All Harry could think about was delaying as much as possible. “But why wait until the end of the year?” 

“Information.” 

“Information?”

“Yes. On the professors, the students, how the school is run. All little things I will need later on...but enough chatter. Where is the Stone? Is it somehow  _ inside _ the mirror? Should I somehow break it?” 

Harry’s mind raced. What he most wanted, right now, was to find the Stone before Quirrell. So, if he looked in the mirror, he should be able to find it. Harry edged to the left, hoping beyond hoping he would be able to look in the glass without Quirrell noticing. With any luck, Hermione was paying attention and not lying on the ground, passed out from terror. 

Harry kept inching left, the ropes around his ankles too tight for anything but the most miniscule of steps. 

“I see myself finding the Stone...I see myself crafting the Elixir of Life...but where is it?” 

Harry toppled over. 

“Hmm...perhaps...Potter!” Lord Voldemort clapped his hands, and the ropes fell away from Harry. Harry slowly made his way to his feet. “Come here, Potter. Look in the mirror and tell me what you see.” 

Harry walked toward him, mind curiously blank as panic swirled through him. He had to lie. He had to. 

Lord Voldemort pushed him toward the mirror. 

For a moment, Harry only saw his reflection, pale and scared-looking, but then his reflection smiled. Hermione appeared over his shoulder. Mirror-Harry grinned wider and reached his hand into his pocket, pulling out a blood-red stone. Mirror-Harry passed the Stone to Mirror-Hermione, then winked. 

Harry bit his lip. Had he done it?

“Well?” Lord Voldemort asked impatiently. “What did you see?”

“I --” Harry was lost for words, then decided to tell a somewhat truth. “I see my parents -- and my grandparents, too. They’re standing behind me, and they’re smiling. They love me…” 

“Get out of the way.” 

Harry scrambled to obey. 

“This doesn’t make any sense. How...Potter! Come back here!” 

Fear growing, Harry walked forward. 

“Look at me, Potter.” 

Crimson met emerald, and Harry’s scar exploded in pain. He staggered back, and Lord Voldemort reached out to grab him. A hand wrapped securely around his forearm and --

“AAAARGHHH!”

The pain in Harry’s scar abruptly stopped as Lord Voldemort stared in horror at his blistered hands. “You…” He raised his wand to perform a curse, and Harry desperately lunged forward, hoping he’d be able to blister him again…

His hands made contact with Lord Voldemort’s face, and the pain in his scar started up again.

Someone was screaming, high and in pain, and someone was shouting his name… Harry hung on tighter, trying to keep Lord Voldemort in too much pain...

Then suddenly he was holding onto nothing at all, and he was falling, falling, falling, down, down, down...


	20. Reflection

 

_Headmaster’s Office_

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland_

_12 June 1992_

 

Albus wrapped his hands around the steaming mug of black tea. It had been a long school year, and a stressful one, too. The entire ordeal with Quirinus was unspeakably terrible, notwithstanding the return of his old enemy.

Albus sighed. He’d been hoping Harry Potter would be older before he had to face Tom. Alas, it was not fated to be.

Albus sipped the hot liquid thoughtfully. Harry Potter. The boy appeared to be settling in well with his peers. Ronald Weasley and he were practically inseparable, and the boy was also close friends with Hermione Granger who, Albus was delighted to note, was a muggleborn. He’d been a bit nervous when Potter was initially sorted into Slytherin, but the boy seemed to be flourishing there. Even Severus had admitted Potter was ‘not abysmal,’ which was quite the compliment coming from him.

Mind drifting back to the conversation he had only hours ago in the Hospital Wing, Albus took another sip of tea. Potter was a living reminder of the ten years they’d spent in a relative peace. With any luck, Albus could stretch those years longer to possibly delay the inevitable...

He shuffled the papers on his desk. As usual, he was completely and utterly inundated with work. Debate was coming to a close on several key education bills, and Albus had to marshall his support in the House of Commons if he was to have any hope of defeating Lord Gaunt’s bill.

 

_The Religion and Culture Affirmation Act_

 

_The House of Lords_

_Preserving Wizarding Heritage and Culture_

_Sponsors: Lord Thomas Gaunt, Lord Lucius Malfoy, Lord Thaddeus Nott, Lord Austin Yaxley_

_Signatories: Lord Cadmus Avery, Lord Caractacus Burke, Lord Amycus Carrow, Lord James Fawley, Lord Nathaniel Parkinson, Lord Erik Rowle, Lord Samuel Selwyn_

 

_The House of Lords, 1992_

 

_Viewing with concern the current state of affairs,_

_Noting increased numbers of muggle-born students,_

_Understanding the impact of outside culture upon our own,_

_Emphasizing the need to preserve our unique culture and heritage,_

_Desiring the cooperation of all wizards,_

 

 _I. Calls for_ _the establishment of religious education classes at Hogwarts,_  
_II. These classes will:_  
_A. Educate those raised in non-wizarding or mixed-heritage households in the_ _traditions of the wizarding world,_  
_B. Permit those raised in wizarding households to continue to learn about and practice their faith,_  
_C. The classes will taught by a qualified instructor chosen by the Hogwarts Board of_ _Directors and the Headmaster who meets the standards detailed in Appendix A,_  
_D.The classes will follow syllabi similar to those detailed in Appendix B;_  
_III.Mandates_ _that students attending a primary or secondary educational institution be granted days off school at no penalty for High Holidays, which include:_  
_A.Yule,_  
_B. Imbolc,_  
_C. Ostara,_  
_D. Beltane,_  
_E. Litha,_  
_F. Lughnasadh,_  
_G. Mabon,_  
_H. Samhain;_  
_IV. Establishes_ _the usage of wizarding-only terms for the High Holidays and significant historical events, which are detailed in Appendix C._  
  
Albus perused the resolution again. On the surface, RaCAA was simple. Elegant, even, and a sharp change from Lord Gaunt’s typical Blood-Purist fare. He flipped to the second page of the document, which detailed sample syllabi for the religious education class. The class was to meet once per week for two hours, and be mandatory for students up until third year. Students would then be separated into different classes depending on their prior exposure to wizarding culture.  
Albus frowned. Far too many Moderate Traditionalists were lending their support to the bill. He had it on good information that Lords Greengrass, Moon, Travers, and Urquhart were planning on voting for the bill. That, coupled with the fact that House Gaunt had triple voting power due to their claim on both the Peverell and Slytherin seats, left Albus feeling very concerned. The resolution itself left Albus feeling incredibly worried. His plans -- his decade-long plans -- were being thrust into jeopardy by Lord Gaunt. As tempted as he was to stomp his feet like a petulant child, he knew he could not. Letters would need to be sent immediately to Malone and other key representatives in the House of Commons, as well as the Progressives in the House of Lords.  
Setting out a quill and parchment as a reminder, Albus pulled the next proposed act forward.  
  
_Primary Education Reform Act_  
  
_The House of Lords_  
_Educational Reform_  
  
_Sponsors: Lady Regent Amelia Bones, Lord August Moon, Lord Samuel Selwyn_  
_Signatories: Lady Kora Brown, Lord Corinth Dagworth, Lord Felton Flitwick, Lord Graham_  
_Gamp, Lord Cygnus Greengrass, Lady Regent Augusta Longbottom, Lord Archibald MacMillan, Lord Osgood Slughorn, Lord Erasmus Prince, Lord William Weasley_  
  
_The House of Lords, 1992_  
  
_Taking into account the current lack of formal, standardized primary education,_  
_Emphasizing the need for all students to begin their secondary education on equal academic footing,_  
_Noting successful primary school programs across the Continent, namely in France and Russia,_  
  
_I. Establishes_ _the Wizarding Primary Education Program (WPEP) to create a formal, standardized education for all wizards regardless of blood-status, gender, or monetary status. WPEP schools will:_  
_A. Be commuter schools which provide both Floo and Portkey access,_  
_B. Teach children beginning at age five and continuing until they commence school at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry or an equivalent institution,_  
_C. Instruct children in History of Magic, Herbology, Pre-Potions, Wizarding Culture (for muggleborn and muggle-raised students), Astronomy, Maths, Literature and Writing, and Runic Scripts;_  
_II. Recommends_ _the founding of the following WPEP sponsored primary schools,_  
_A. London Academy of Magic, to be located in London, England,_  
_B. Liverpool Magical Primary, to be located in Liverpool, England,_  
_C. Cardiff School of Magic, to be located in Cardiff, Wales,_  
_D. Edinburgh Academy of Magic, to be located in Edinburgh, Scotland,_

 _E. Belfast Institute of Magical Learning, to be located in Belfast, Northern Ireland;_  
_III. Forms_ _a special subcommittee as part of WPEP to supervise curriculum development and staffing. The committee will be comprised of education experts and parent representatives._

Albus drummed his fingers on the desk. He hadn’t made any sort of public move on PERA yet. The overall opinion on the proposed act seemed positive -- at least from what he’d gleaned from the _Daily Prophet_ as well as from his contacts in the House of Commons. The fact that Amelia Bones was sponsoring the bill spoke volumes about it. Augusta Longbottom, and even Bill Weasley, signed on as signatories.

In fact, several of his contacts in the House of Commons had owled him about PERA. The muggleborn and half-blood parents were enthusiastic about the proposed system as it allowed their children to arrive at Hogwarts on equal footing with the purebloods. The less affluent purebloods liked the system because it allowed them to bypass the expensive tutoring preferred by the Upper Houses, and the wealthy purebloods appreciated any venue that would allow their offspring to further excel.

From an educator’s perspective, the plan was also good. The primary schools would allow students to develop general basic knowledge as well as advance on easier topics, potentially permitting gifted students to take O.W.L.s early. This would open up their schedules and allow them to take advanced courses sooner.

Albus reflected fondly on his Alchemy class, held only for select seventh year students. They were barely able to graze the surface of Alchemy, and if he had another year with the students, or even another semester, they could learn so much more…

Pushing happy academic thoughts out of the way, Albus reached for his parchment and quill. He had letters to write, and interviews to schedule.

* * *

 

_Wizarding Wireless Recording Studio_

_Diyurn Alley, London_

_13 June 1992_

 

The last few notes of the Weird Sisters’ latest hit faded out. “Wow, so that’s what kids these days have been listening to,” Albert Wisecrack, the fast-talking radio host, began, “Speaking of our children, there’s two very interesting pieces of legislation that are about to enter the voting phase in the Wizengamot. I have a very special guest here today to speak about the legislation, please welcome none other than Chief Warlock and Headmaster of Hogwarts, Lord Albus Dumbledore!

“How are you doing today, Headmaster?”

“Excellent, thank you for having me here, Albert,” Albus said smoothly.

“As Chief Warlock, I understand you oversee the political proceedings of the House of Commons, so you get to see a lot of the debate that goes on.”

“Yes.”

“Could you tell us more about what to expect about these potential resolutions?”

“Certainly. The first one I would like to talk about this evening is one I am in support of. You may already be familiar with PERA, or the Primary Education Reform Act, which was proposed in the House of Lords by Lord Moon, Lord Selwyn, and Lady Regent Bones. The act creates a system of primary education institutes to create a comprehensive and equal schooling opportunity for all wizarding children in the United Kingdom. These primary schools are for children aged five to ten, and are day schools with both Floo and Portkey access.”

“How interesting! As an educator, how do you think this will impact Hogwarts’ curriculum?”

“I believe it will have a positive impact. Gifted students will be able to place out of introductory classes, which will allow them to take O.W.L.s earlier and have more space in their schedule to take advanced classes. Also, all students will start out on equal footing, which will be  a great boon for the professors.”

“Excellent, excellent. Now, what about the other piece of legislation?”

Albus sighed. “RaCAA, or the Religious and Cultural Affirmation Act, is not one I agree with. It was proposed in the House of Lords by Lord Gaunt, Lord Malfoy, Lord Nott, and Lord Yaxley.”

“And what exactly does this bill entail?”

“It mandates religious education classes at Hogwarts for all students and also places restrictions on classes and terminology based on the High Holidays and significant events in wizarding history.”

“You mentioned you are not a supporter of this bill -- could you explain why?”

“Of course. As a society, we need to continuously move forward and modernize. The year is now 1992, and the muggle world around us has been rapidly evolving. Lord Gaunt’s resolution would make it increasingly overwhelming and difficult for muggleborn and muggle-raised students to adapt to life at Hogwarts as they not only will be plunged into a world of magic and intrigue, but one where they must adopt a new religion. This is not to say that I don’t support the gods -- I was born in 1881 and know the old ways as well as any wizard. I simply don’t believe we should thrust our views onto students at the first available opportunity.

“Furthermore, I find RaCAA to be especially concerning given Lord Gaunt’s past record.

He is well-known for his hardline stance on muggleborns. Take, for example, his proposed and failed Wizard Reclamation Act in 1988 which planned to take muggleborn wizards and witches out of their homes, wipe their parents memories, and place them with wizarding foster families. While RaCAA takes a softer stance than the WRA did back in ‘88, I cannot help but feel that something sinister is brewing. I have lived a long time, and as my grandfather used to say, nifflers after gold never change their course.”

“Thank you, Lord Dumbledore. As a reminder to anyone listening, if you have any questions on upcoming legislation, please owl your local representative in the House of Commons. Voting procedure on PERA and RaCAA will begin on the twentieth of June. That’s it for tonight, folks. This is Albert Wisecrack, signing off.”

The numerous recording instruments stopped humming, and Albert stood up, stretching his back. “So, do you think Lord Gaunt is really something to be worried about or are you just trying to create political drama?”

Albus gave Albert a long look. “I have known Lord Gaunt for many long years, yet I still do not truly know his will. This makes him an unknown quantity, and the unknown can be incredibly dangerous as it is impossible to predict.”

“So you’re frightened of Lord Gaunt?”

Albus sighed. “Of course not. That would be preposterous. I simply do not trust him.”

 

 


	21. Door, Revisited

 

_ Dungeon Corridor _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 14 June 1992 _

 

Harry scuffed his shoes along the corridor floor. So much had happened within the past couple of days. He’d faced Lord Voldemort, of all people. Lord Voldemort. Something strange had happened down in that final chamber as well, and Dumbledore had put it down to the power of love. 

Harry didn’t believe him for a second. Love. The power of  _ love _ . How corny was that? It seemed like the sort of thing you’d see in some little kid’s stupid dopey television show, but not something that happened in real life. 

Besides, Harry was eleven, and far too old to believe in dumb stuff like that. 

Harry cast his mind back to the morning in the Hospital Wing. The Headmaster had been so kind, and he’d called Harry brave. Sure, he’d been brave, but wasn’t that a Gryffindor thing?  _ At least,  _ Harry thought grimly,  _ the Headmaster hadn’t taken points off Slytherin.  _ Dumbledore had actually awarded him and Hermione a small amount of points for ‘behaving responsibly with a priceless artifact,’ and although Slytherin hadn’t needed those points to win the House Cup, it made Harry feel good to contribute. 

And speaking of Hermione… 

Harry swallowed hard. Hermione had been incredibly distraught and blamed herself for what Lord Voldemort had done to Harry for some inexplicable reason, despite Harry and Dumbledore’s best efforts to convince her otherwise. Harry had the feeling Hermione would be paying extra close attention in Defense Against the Dark Arts next year, which was really saying something since she currently out-studied every single Ravenclaw.

Harry looked up. Somehow, without him noticing, his feet had led him down to the rocky beach. Shrugging, Harry trudged across the shore. His arrival at the same beach at the beginning of the school year now seemed so long ago. He’d changed so much since then. He’d learned so much…

Harry pushed the Slytherin seal and idly watched as the door swung open.

“ _ Lumos. _ ” 

Wand tip ignited, Harry made his way down the dark stairwell. He really needed time alone with his thoughts, and he knew no one would disturb him down here. Harry walked to the end of the corridor, reaching the great door with its serpent guardians. 

Harry plonked himself down on the corridor floor, propping his wand so it’d illuminate the area. He stretched his legs out and gazed up at the snakes encircling the door. 

“It’s funny,” he began, voice echoing strangely in the darkness. “I’ve been getting the idea that there’s a lot expected of me, all because of the Boy-Who-Lived stuff. It’s dumb, really. I’m so famous for something I don’t even remember, and no one knows how I did it. Now with the whole thing down in the final chamber with Voldemort, I feel like I’m going to need to do it all again. Only, I don’t know how.” Harry’s nose pricked. “I just wish Dumbledore would be more open with…”

Harry trailed off as a grinding noise suddenly sounded. Scrambling to his feet, Harry swung his wandlight around, only to have his jaw drop to the floor as the door swung open, revealing a dark passage beyond.  Harry swallowed hard. He should probably wait for Hermione and Ron, but at the same time, he wanted to be the one to discover something special. 

Mustering his courage, Harry raised his wand high and strode through the doorway. Shortly after, his jaw dropped to the floor for the second time in as many minutes. 

He was standing at the entrance to a room almost the size of the Hogwarts library. Vaulted ceilings soared upwards into the gloom, and the walls were covered with what appeared to be bookshelves and tapestries. Looking around for a light source better than his wand, Harry spotted several stone sconces bracketing the wall. 

Harry pointed his wand towards the nearest one. “ _ Hyacinthum Flamma! _ ” A jet of

bluebell flames shot out of his wand and into the sconce. With a dull floosh, the other sconces lit up, bathing the room in pale light. Harry bit back a gasp. The entire room was done in a dark, Victorian type architecture. It vaguely reminded Harry of the Slytherin common room, but the modern twists present there weren’t evident in the mystery room. Long black couches -- no, they were called  _ chaise lounges  _ \-- formed a rectangle in the center of the room. Chairs in the same style sat next to them, and spindly-legged tables stood waiting to be loaded up with books. 

Harry idly wandered around the outside of the room. Shelves upon shelves were laden with books, rolled scrolls, and strange looking devices. Tapestries depicting dragons and men in old-fashioned robes hung on the few open spots on the walls, and a large dark desk sat in a corner. Harry started to walk over, eyes still roving the room. It was clean -- there wasn’t any dust floating around -- yet it still carried an air of neglect. He couldn’t exactly pin down the feeling in words, but it felt like nobody had been there for a while.

Harry rested his fingers on the desk. It was crafted from a massive slab of wood -- mahogany, perhaps -- and has a serpent etched around its border. A small pile of books sat in the corner along with a small leather-bound notebook. A quill lay at the top of the desk, and an inkwell with a dried crust of ink sat next to it. Harry sat down in the chair, feet dangling a goodly distance from the ground. Feeling very professor-ly, Harry steepled his fingers and surveyed the room. It was definitely a library, or a study of some sort. 

He shifted the books on the table.  _ Iberian Magecraft  _ looked interesting, as well as  _ Stonehenge: A Ritualistic Approach _ . The rest of the books had indecipherable titles or were in languages Harry didn’t understand. Harry put them aside, then reached for the journal, but paused halfway. There was something inscribed on the table…

Pushing his glasses further up his nose, Harry squinted at the tiny print. 

**Property of Salazar de Sliterín** . 

Harry’s mind whirled.  _ Salazar de Sliterín...was that Salazar Slytherin?  _ A cursory glance at the amount of serpent decor suggested that yes, it was. So, that would mean that this was Salazar Slytherin’s secret library? It certainly seemed like that was the case.

Harry’s mouth suddenly went dry. He, Harry, had stumbled upon  _ Salazar Slytherin’s _ secret library? One that Hermione hadn’t been able to find a reference to? One that seemed to not even  _ exist _ ? 

It just didn’t seem real. 

Harry ran his fingers over the letters. They certainly looked real. They felt real. 

The whole thing was just too fantastic to believe. He had to find Ron and Hermione.

* * *

 

_ Slytherin Common Room _

_ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland _

_ 14 June 1992 _

 

“Hermione!” Harry called, scanning the common room. “Millicent, do you know where Hermione is?” 

The tall girl shrugged. “I think she’s up in the dorm room. Why?”  
“I need to talk to her. Could you go get her?”

“I suppose.”

“Thanks! Oi, Ron!” 

“What?”

“C’mere!”

“Okay.”

Ron ambled across the common room just as Hermione came up the stairs from her dorm room. 

“What’s going on, Harry?” 

“Uh, it’s easier if I show you.”

Hermione looked skeptical. “Okay. Lead on, then.” 

Harry headed out of the common room and down the stairs to the lower dungeon. 

“Harry, are we going to where I think we’re going?”

“Yes.”

“But how --” 

“Just wait! You’ll see.” 

Hermione shut her mouth, and Harry led them across the rocky beach, through the hidden doorway and down the twisty staircase. They reached the end of the corridor, and Harry’s heart dropped. The door was closed again. 

“Harry, what’s going on?”

Harry looked in disbelief. “The door...it was open before.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you just find it open?” Ron wondered.

“No...It was closed originally.”

“Then how did it open?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, were you doing anything special?” 

Harry could feel his face going warm. “Er, kind of? I was, er, talking.” 

“Talking? Maybe there was some sort of password,” Hermione guessed. 

“I dunno.”

“Well, what were you saying, Harry?” 

“Nothing...it was personal.” 

“C’mon, Harry!”

“Just try to recreate what you did.”

Harry sighed. “Okay.” He sunk down onto the floor and gazed up at the snakes encircling the door. If he looked at them long enough, they almost looked alive. Harry tilted his head to the side, momentarily mesmerized by the serpents’ eyes. 

“I wasn’t talking about much,” Harry began, oblivious to how Ron’s jaw dropped open, “I was just saying how I wished Dumbledore would be more open with me.”

Stone grated on stone as the door opened. 

“Well, that solves it,” Hermione said matter-of-factly. “Let’s go on, then.” 

“Wait!”

“What, Ron?” Hermione asked, hands on her hips. 

“Is nobody going to say anything about Harry being a Parselmouth?” 

“A what?” Harry and Hermione asked almost simultaneously. 

“A Parselmouth,” Ron repeated. “Y’know, someone who can speak to snakes.”

“There’s a name for that?” Harry asked, just as Hermione demanded to know if that was even possible. 

“It’s obviously possible,” Ron said. “Harry’s just done it!”

“I’ve done it before, too,” Harry chimed in. “Once I got to go to the zoo along with the Dursleys because they couldn’t find a sitter for me. The boa constrictor was pretty nice.” 

Ron gaped at him.

“What, Ron?” 

“You really don’t know anything about Parseltongue or being a Parselmouth.”

“Well, no.”

Ron took a deep breath. “It’s a trait found almost exclusively in the descendants of Salazar Slytherin. He’s actually the only Hogwarts Founder not to come from Britain in some capacity. He was from Iberia, which is now Spain and Portugal, and while he was known here as Salazar Slytherin, he was a mage back in Iberia.”

“A mage?” Harry asked. 

“A very powerful wizard,” Ron clarified. “Someone on a Dumbledore-type level. Anyway, one of his Iberian titles was  _ Suge Hizlaria _ . It means Serpent Speaker.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“You said Parselmouth like it was a bad thing.” 

“It kind of is a bad thing, at least in modern history.” 

“Really? Why?”

Ron shuffled his feet. “Typically, dark wizards are Parselmouths...the last couple of generations of House Gaunt were Parselmouths, and they were well known Blood Purists. I think two of them died in Azkaban, actually, for crimes against Muggles. There’s also Herpo the Foul, who Binns vaguely covered in History of Magic.” 

“Oh my,” Hermione murmured.

“And then there’s the most well-known Parselmouth of the century. You-Know-Who.”

“Who?” Harry asked, feeling rather confused. 

“ _ You-Know-Who _ .” 

“Oh, Lord Voldemort?”

Ron flinched, then ran a hand roughly through his hair. “Harry, you can’t just say his name like that.”

“Sorry.” 

“It’s fine… just don’t do it again.” 

Silence descended upon them. “Does this mean I’m going to turn into a dark wizard?” Harry asked nervously.

“No, not at all,” Ron said. “It’s not a concrete thing. It’s just what’s happened recently, so I wouldn’t go around saying that you’re a Parselmouth. People might think you’re dark, or related to House Slytherin or House Gaunt, and given the current political situation, that’s not something you’d want.”

“Why?” Hermione wanted to know. 

“I don’t know a lot,” Ron admitted, “but my oldest brother Bill holds the Weasley seat. Charlie, my second oldest brother, is supposed to have the Gryffindor seat, but he ran off to Romania to study dragons, then Percy will have the Prewett seat, but he’s not old enough yet. Er, that’s beside the point though. Bill will sometimes tell me stuff about the Wizengamot, and the current Lord Gaunt has not only the Gaunt seat, but also the Slytherin and Peverell seats. Apparently he’s bad news, too. He’s a conservative Blood Purist and some of the legislation he wanted to pass was frankly quite awful.”

“Oh.” 

“You guys want to explore the chamber?” Harry asked, abruptly changing the subject. “There’s books inside, Hermione.” 

“Oooh!” 

“Anything interesting for normal blokes like us, Harry?”

“You better believe it!”

Ron smiled, his lopsided grin splitting his face. Harry grinned back. It was great to have friends. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> Only one more chapter to go! It’s scheduled to be uploaded on Sunday, 2 December.
> 
> In my headcanon, the role of Thomas Gaunt is played by Benedict Cumberbatch.


	22. A Meeting

_ Personal Office Space of Lord Thomas Gaunt _

_ Gaunt House, Cornwall, England _

_ 14 June 1992 _

 

“Care for a cigar, Lucius?” 

“Not tonight, Thomas. Narcissa does not care for the odor.” 

“And how is your lovely wife?”

“Beautiful, as always. Now, why did you call me here? As much as I enjoy your company, I assume it was for something more than idle chat.” 

Thomas steepled his fingers. “Indeed. What have you heard of the man known as Quirinius Quirrell?” 

Lucius raised an eyebrow. “He was the former Muggle Studies professor at Hogwarts, and the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor this year. Draco said the man was an adequate instructor, and Quirrell’s resume was certainly superior to those of the other candidates who applied for the position. He was a Ravenclaw during his time at Hogwarts, I believe, and about ten years younger than myself.”

“He is dead.”

“ _ What? _ ” Lucius spluttered in shock. “How?” 

Thomas puffed on his cigar and exhaled. “It depends on who you ask.” 

“Really.” 

“In body, Quirinius Quirrell passed into the Void on the eleventh of June, 1992.” 

Lucius frowned slightly. “In body?”

Thomas’ lips curved upwards. “In body. In mind, the story is rather different...and none of it may pass beyond this room. Do I have your word?”

“You do.” 

“In mind, Quirinius Quirrell passed early in the summer of 1991, to my best guess.” 

“Someone else was inhabiting his body during the school year, then.”

Thomas’ smile widened. “Yes.” 

“Who?” 

“The Dark Lord.”

“No,” Lucius breathed, eyes widening ever so slightly in awe.  

“Yes.”

“How?” 

“To my knowledge, the Dark Lord came into possession of Quirrell’s body during his time in Albania. He completely took over the man’s body and mind, and trooped into Hogwarts with Dumbledore never the wiser.” 

“But Quirrell passed.”

Thomas’ smile dropped, and he abruptly became serious again. “Correct. It is a setback, but one we will overcome.” 

“If I may be so bold, may I query as to why the Dark Lord entered Hogwarts in the guise of Quirrell?” 

“To gather information, I believe. My counterpart was not entirely clear on that matter. The Dark Lord believed the Philosopher’s Stone was being kept in Hogwarts.”

Lucius’ throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Is the Dark Lord...sane?”

“Perfectly. Dumbledore was storing the Stone in the school as a favor to his old friend Nicolas Flamel.” 

Lucius swore. 

“My thoughts as well, on that matter. It’s a pity the Stone was destroyed. It would have expedited everything.”

“Indeed.” 

Thomas steepled his fingers. “I have a task for you, Lucius.” 

The blonde aristocrat inclined his head. 

“Do you recall our rodent associate?”

Lucius’ nose wrinkled. “Yes.”

“I need you to find him. I currently do not know of the Dark Lord’s whereabouts, and the rodent has the ability to unobtrusively search for him. Secondly, I would like you to begin to reach out to the old crowd. Let them know that our… social club will be starting up again soon.” 

Lucius’ smile was sharp. “Of course. It would be my  _ pleasure _ .” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> So, who is Thomas Gaunt?
> 
>  
> 
> Also, a point of clarification -- several reviewers asked if Hermione is a Parselmouth. Unfortunately, she is not. She heard hissing, saw a door open, and figured that the hissing was a password, not a language.
> 
>  
> 
> We’ve arrived at the end of volume one of The Chessmaster! A huge thanks goes out to my betas, and everyone who has followed, favorited, or reviewed!
> 
> The first chapter of volume two, The Chessmaster: White Knight, will be posted immediately!

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I hope you all have enjoyed the first chapter! I’d like to give a virtual round of applause to Scintilla of Myself and Sataniel who’ve beta’d this fic for me. It wouldn’t be this nice without their help! In typical author fashion, I will now shamelessly beg for you to leave me feedback via the review function.


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